


A Song Of Love and Murder

by ComingandGoingByBubble



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, be prepared for lots of feels, gglam, gglam got crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2019-10-13 17:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17492459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComingandGoingByBubble/pseuds/ComingandGoingByBubble
Summary: An invitation to King's Landing cannot be refused. Soon Monty, Phoebe, and Sibella find themselves caught up in the chaos of the capital, with their lives on the line.A GGLAM/GoT crossover!!





	1. MONTY I

**Monty:**

House D’ysquith normally stayed far away from the chaos of King’s Landing. The executions, the bloodshed, and the backstabbing had been deemed too taxing on the brain by the previous Lord, Lord Adalbert D’ysquith. Not that being in the Westerlands had been any different, but even so, Lord Adalbert had sought to avoid the harsh realities of the capital.  But seeing as Monty Navarro had now secured the title of being the Lord of Highhurst, the interest of House D’ysquith had now shifted towards the capital by way of an invitation.

_The Imp and the Stark girl._

An odd pair, but there had been stranger couples that had been thrust into unhappy marriages in the Seven Kingdoms and far beyond. It wasn’t the marriage that gave Monty concern, it was the unsaid threat, the words that had to be read in between the lines of the carefully crafted invitation. The wedding itself was nothing more than a formality, an excuse to get Monty and Phoebe ensnared in whatever game the Lannisters were playing at. Monty had gathered that the court had heard it's full of whispers and speculation surrounding himself, and how he had obtained his position (the most peculiar circumstances indeed). The kingdom apparently now believed it past due to meet with the new Lord and gather a sense of his loyalties and so forth.

Monty had figured that a summoning to court would happen eventually, and he guessed that now was as good a time as any for King’s Landing, seeing as Stannis’ invasion had been defeated, and the Tyrells had managed to quell the smallfolk’s riots with their abundance of crops rolling in from the farms of Highgarden and of the Reach. With the threat of starvation and a sack of the city safely avoided, now was the time to test the Crown’s allies, and House D’ysquith would be one of them.

The letter and all its formalities from the Queen Regent; Cersei Lannister no less, kept repeating in his head. What was the phrasing she had used?

_“In this time of peace and prosperity for the Crown, King Joffrey Baratheon, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm would like to extend a hand of friendship to House D’ysquith and summon the Lord and Lady to King’s Landing for the wedding of Lord Tyrion Lannister, and Lady Sansa Stark. House D’ysquith has always been a loyal supporter of House Lannister, and it is time to reconnect and restore the bonds of our two houses over a wedding that shall unite the Seven Kingdoms like never before. Your residence shall be in the Red Keep, as courtesy of the King himself, as House D’ysquith has always been of vital importance to the King and Crown alike. Among the festivities, we should also like House D’ysquith to pledge their loyalty to the Crown and their King.”_

_Signed,_

_Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms._

        Sibella had read over the letter incessantly, nearly causing the ink to bleed into her skin from having touched it so many times from excitement whereas Phoebe had left it alone.

        “King Joffrey, I’ve heard he’s an inbred, insane bastard who likes nothing more than to torment people,” Sibella mused while Monty kissed at her neck, his hands at her waist, “However will you manage to keep him at bay?”

The bedroom in the castle was spacious, and yet somehow Sibella and Monty always found themselves on the bed, curled up together as if they were the only two people in the world. They hadn’t gotten very far today, seeing as only Monty’s shirt and shoes lay upon the floor, and only the top layer of Sibella’s dress had been removed in haste along with her shoes that had been half kicked to the other side of the room.

        “The King can do as he likes as long as he doesn’t bring Phoebe or I into it,” Monty murmured, not wanting to talk about Joffrey Baratheon of all people while he and Sibella shared their alone time. After all, Phoebe was soon to return home from her afternoon for sweets with Lady Hetherspoon.

        “But he is involving you and Phoebe…  a summons to King’s Landing,” She pulled her blonde head away, a loose curl falling across her shoulder. Monty gingerly wrapped his index finger around it, and then caressed her cheek.

        “I’m not afraid of King Joffrey,” he whispered, for it was true. The boy, who was hardly a boy, and by no means a man, was merely a puppet, a child that was controlled by his Mother and Grandfather, and everyone else who had their wits about them in that Small Council that was advising him.

         “But what of… our arrangement? News of it will surely spread, people already suspect…”

   Sibella’s blue eyes stared straight at him.

   The question hung in the air. Monty moved back a bit from her, letting her curl fall from his grasp as his hands clasped together on his knees.

        “No one needs to know.”

   Sibella scoffed, “Do you think that will satisfy this inbred bastard?”

   Monty sighed, shrugging.

        “He’ll be occupied with his uncle marrying the Stark girl. I doubt he’ll even pay any attention to us. Besides, if I have my way with getting a seat on the Small Council, I’ll be sure to divert his attention away from us,” Monty murmured, eager to get back to kissing her. His lips brushed against hers, but then Sibella pulled away.

        “I doubt it shall be that easy to worm your way into the Small Council, Monty. Might I remind you that Lionel is trying to do the same thing, with no such luck?”

       “And I’ll remind you that Lionel isn’t the Lord of Highhurst, nor did he get an invitation to King’s Landing…”

       The words wounded Sibella, for she was most upset about being left alone here in Lannisport while Monty and Phoebe went to the capital.

       “Yes, well, Lionel has his own advantages…” the pathetic attempt on Sibella’s part to try and defend her husband was weak.

        “Sibella, please,” Monty begged, his hands moving to hold her waist.

        “I wish I was going with you,” she murmured, her lips resting on the base of his neck. “That way I could be there, with you both, in case of any danger…”

        “You’re beginning to sound like Phoebe, did she put these worries in your head?”

        For the last week or so, ever since they had gotten the invitation, Phoebe had been fretting. Not that Monty blamed her, it was nerve-wracking, but Monty was more afraid of the people who pretended to be his friends than the King. After all, how close could he get to the King? It’s not like Monty would ever murder the boy, he had no motive to do so, no intention, no reason to fear him other than his name tying House Lannister and House Baratheon together.

        Sibella ducked, glancing down at the sheets. Her chest heaved. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her shift, sheer and delicate as it was, pink of course.  Monty caught just a glimpse of her eyes and saw the sudden flash of fear. It was hidden, as Sibella was highly apt at concealing her feelings, but Monty saw right through her, he always could.

        “The Mad King did much the same and our family never feared him,” Monty supplied.

        “You’re sounding far too cocky and confident for a man just named Lord of Highhurst, Montague,” she chided him, her voice low.

       He took her hand.

        “Sibella, I promise you. There is nothing to fear in King’s Landing.”

        “I just… I couldn’t bear to see you or Phoebe harmed, and with me being so far away… stuck here with Lionel, and this wedding between the Stark Girl and the Imp- “

        “Seems like the perfect time for all of us to go to King’s Landing and face this King together.”

         Her eyes lit up at that.

        “Me?”

        “I figured we could bring you along, as an honored guest for Phoebe, a companion of sorts while I deal with King Joffrey.”

         “I’d say Phoebe and I are more than companions,” she giggled in a half growl.

          It was not uncommon, their arrangement, between the three of them, but not quite heard of in Westeros. In Dorne, yes, but in the Westerlands, near Casterly Rock… it was dangerous. In King’s Landing, even more so.

        Yet, Monty couldn’t bear to be apart from Sibella, nor could Phoebe. As soon as she had finished reading the summons, she had asked about Sibella, if she could come, anything to keep her with them while they brave this journey.

        “Lionel won’t allow it,” she stated simply after a moment.

         Monty bit back a heavy sigh.

_Lionel._

         Sibella had rather counted on him dying soon after the wedding, but seeing as he hadn’t, and she was now attached to House Holland by marriage, whose words were as pitiful as their Lord; “Tough as Stone”. Sibella frequently quipped that it should be more like “Dull as a Stone,” in reference to her Lord husband’s lack of personality, virility, or anything.

        “I’ll handle Lionel,” he replied shortly.

        Sibella laughed. “Ah, so I’m to find him dead in a ditch by morning.”

         “Worse things have happened to men in these parts.”

        She grinned, allowing him to kiss at her neck, then her jaw line, and finally her lips.

          “I won’t allow any harm to befall either you or Phoebe in King’s Landing,” he murmured in her ear. Sibella’s eyes softened as she looked upon him. A sigh escaped her lips.

        “You can’t promise that,” she whispered seriously.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead firmly, clutching at her golden hair with gentle hands.

        “We have nothing to fear from the Lannisters. They are our liege lords. We serve them.”

        “House D’ysquith doesn’t have much to fear, but others aren’t so lucky,” she corrected, running her hands over his bare chest, “House Holland is merely an annoying thorn in their side. Lionel will want me to make connections, to endorse his political aspirations, a seat on the Small Council. Besides House Hallward has an even less a favorable reputation in the Lannister’s eyes. “Where Loyalties Lie,” indeed, as ever changing as the wind.”

        “Then we shall take this opportunity to change their opinion of us.” Monty had half a mind as to what the future in King’s Landing held for him. A position on the Small Council, a chance at greatness as long as he kept climbing, kept advancing. He had to, after the business with the D’ysquiths, Monty only saw upwards.

Sibella straightened at that. The look she gave him was prophetic.

         “As if the lion pays any mind to the opinions of the sheep…”

          Monty then decided that he’d had enough of this conversation and kissed her to shush her. Sibella’s lips were soft. She straddled him after a moment, giggling, with Monty’s hands lifting up her smallclothes. Once her smallclothes were removed, her golden hair was now a stark contrast to her pale, beautiful porcelain skin. Monty felt his body become drawn to hers.He felt compelled to touch every part of her, to caress every inch of her skin with hands, to kiss until they were both spent with passion. Gripping a fistful of her hair, he kissed her hard, his other hand cupping her breast. A sigh escaped from her lips, exhaling into his mouth, and even her breath was intoxicating to him. It had been so long since they had spent time like this. Between Monty’s new position, and Sibella’s crumbling marriage, both had had their duties to perform, and as such the physical part of their relationship had fallen to a low priority.

         Her arms wrapped around his neck, tightly, constricting, but Monty didn’t mind. Gods he wanted her so bad, so very badly. For her to be his, and his alone.

         His pants were quickly removed by Sibella’s quick, nimble fingers, thrown hastily to some dark corner of the room.She kissed him softly, humming lightly in his ear as his hands moved to her waist. Her skin was so smooth beneath his fingers, he grasped at her body in need.

         It was then that she stopped suddenly. Her entire being going still, as if time itself had frozen her. Monty glanced up from kissing at her neck to look at her with concern.

       “Darling?”

        “If I can’t convince Lionel, this may be the last time I’ll see either of you… for Gods knows how long,” her voice was quiet.

        He cupped her cheek. “We won’t stay long, we’ll be back right after the wedding.”

        “That’s not the point, Monty,” she insisted, taking a breath, “It’s the fact that the people in this region despise me, despise me and my marriage and once you and Phoebe leave, I’ll have no one but Lionel….”

     “He’ll allow you to leave, he has to.”

      Sibella broke out into a nervous high-pitched laugh at that.

      “Lionel doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, Monty. Right now, his concerns are… of a domestic nature.” She paused, her eyes glancing down at her stomach, “He won’t like it if his wife has to leave for a few weeks time.”

    Monty’s jaw tensed.

    “Seven Hells,” he swore, letting his hands fall from her face in order to curl into tight fists.

     Sibella let out a sigh, tilting her head at him.

      “Oh Monty, did you really expect anything less? I’ve been married for two summers now and-”

    Anger clouded Monty’s head.

    “I thought he was focused on his political aspirations,” he spat out.

    Sibella laughed softly.

    “Well, seeing as that is going nowhere,” her mouth turned into a grimace, “his focus has turned… elsewhere.”

   Monty bit his lip hard. His thoughts were racing.

   “All the more reason you should come to King’s Landing. To further Lionel’s wishes.”

    Sibella’s brow furrowed in confusion, not following Monty’s thought process.

    “Come with us, say that we have extended an invitation to you and that you’ll come to King’s Landing and make alliances for him while he stays here.”

    Sibella shook her head, “He’ll want to go himself, Lionel is not a man to let others do the work for him.”

    “Then you must convince him. Sibella, I can’t bear to-” he cut himself off short, breathing heavily while Sibella pressed a hand to his arm, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

     “I know,” she whispered. “I’ll try…”

The door opening startled them both, only because the shades had been drawn and the light from the hall was blinding.

        “Oh, I’m so sorry my loves. My afternoon ended earlier than expected and so I came home. I was hoping to find you both here,” Phoebe prattled as she shut the door after herself, and then came to sit by Sibella and Monty on the bed. Sibella grabbed for her smallclothes as a sudden chill filled the air. Monty simply covered himself with the thin sheet.

      Phoebe’s bare fingers danced at the end of her braided dark hair, a nervous tick. Not to be associated by the scene before her, for she had found Monty and Sibella in bed and in more compromising positions such as this many a times. That wasn’t what bothered her.

        “You look worried, Phoebe dear,” Monty prompted as Sibella put on her smallclothes quickly.

Phoebe sighed, a flutter of her hands accompanying the gesture.

        “Lady Hetherspoon has heard some… rather horrid things about what happens in King’s Landing. About what Cersei has done…”

        “Lady Hetherspoon also despises the Lannisters even though they are her superior House,” interjected Monty, he was not one for House Hetherspoon.

        “She does blame Cersei for the _incident,”_ remarked Sibella in a rather bored tone, as if she had heard the story a million times and would be reduced to utter insanity if she heard it once more. The well. Melara. The poor girl found dead days later, her rotting corpse riddled with worms and soaked to the bone.

        “Well, I think she is a kind woman- “

        “Cersei Lannister?” Monty gawked.

Phoebe shook her head.

        “Lady Hetherspoon,” Phoebe clarified, “After all, I was about the same age as Melara, I became her surrogate daughter of sorts. She’s always looked after me.”

        “As the wolf looks at its dinner,” stated Sibella as she picked at her nails. Sibella wasn’t particularly fond of her either. Monty knew that Sibella rather hated most people in this region, excluding the Lannisters. Even them, she held some disgust for their harsh behaviors. Monty had been with her when they both had seen the bodies outside Casterly Rock, rotting in the hot sun. She had dared him to take her, to see them, only so that she could laugh at Monty being unable to stomach it, but then she herself had found the images too disturbing and had demanded they turn back after spending no less than a few moments looking at them.

        “You’re rather quick witted today,” Phoebe’s fingers danced at the frayed edges of her hair again.

        “Only because Lionel put me in a foul mood this morning,” Sibella pouted.

        “What did the brute do now?” Phoebe asked, slipping her shoes off, and curling her legs in on the bed. She leaned against Monty’s shoulder, kissing his cheek with a smile.

        “Oh, the usual. I gather he’ll put me in such a mood once more when I return home,” Sibella sighed, running a hand through her hair.

        “Has Monty asked you then?” Phoebe inquired, glancing at both of them, first Sibella, then her husband.

        Monty nodded. “Yes, I have invited Sibella to join us.”

        “Only if I get Lionel’s permission, which I doubt I will, and thus I shall be in a foul mood as soon as I step in the door. Sibella’s voice was angry, bitter.

        Monty felt himself stiffen and pull Phoebe closer. Sibella was almost as dangerous as Monty himself when she was like this. Snobbish, cruel… pessimistic.

The air in the room changed as a silence took hold. Finally, Sibella was the one to break it.

         “How was your afternoon, my darling?” Sibella asked Phoebe suddenly, wanting the attention off of her and her husband for the moment.

        “Oh, just fine. Lady Hetherspoon says she’ll write, and look after the house while we’re gone.”

        “We missed you, my love,” murmured Monty, for he had missed the loving embrace of his wife. Phoebe grinned softly.

        “And I you, both of you.”

     Sibella sat up then, a hand in her curls.

        “I should be going. Lionel will be expecting me home soon.”

       “So soon, my love?” Phoebe’s face morphed into one of disappointment, “I was hoping you could stay at least until supper…”

     Sibella stood, coming over towards Phoebe to kiss her lips.

        “Not tonight, my sweet,” she apologized, “I must go make nice with my husband for the evening, convince him to allow me to come with you to King’s Landing.”

   Phoebe reached out to grab at her hand, kissing it gently.

        “We do hope you can come, we’ll be ever so lonesome if you don’t.”

      Sibella squeezed Phoebe’s hand, “I shall do my best. But I make no promises.”

      She then gathered her clothes. She slipped the garments on with ease, and before Monty knew it, she was fully dressed.

      A gown of dark pink with gold trimming, it suited Sibella perfectly. She had begged Lionel to get it for her, because it was so similar to the gowns they wore in King’s Landing.. Phoebe, in contrast was in a blue and purple ensemble.  

        Sibella kissed them both goodbye, and Monty and Phoebe were left to themselves. Monty ran his fingers through Phoebe’s hair, undoing her braid as it was nearing the midafternoon now and they had no further engagements to go to. Phoebe curled into his embrace welcomingly, letting her head rest on his chest.

    His mind wandered to the invitation once more, the summons that sat on his desk just a few feet away, still open, the words fresh in his head.

    Biting his lip, he wondered briefly if bringing Sibella was a mistake. A misstep in keeping her safe, but then again, he couldn’t part Sibella from himself or from Phoebe even if he had wanted to. Simply put, she would come to King’s Landing, or the Seven themselves would regret such an ill-fated decision.

    His two loves.

    King’s Landing was not prepared for the three of them, of that Monty was certain. Besides, the new Lord of Highhurst had a few tricks up his sleeve to secure his safety and position.

   Perhaps, House D’ysquith’s word would ring true at last.

   Perhaps, pigs could fly.


	2. SIBELLA I

**Sibella:**

        “ _King’s Landing?”_

Lionel sounded insulted that she had even breached the subject of going to the capital without him, as if her travels there would be a personal insult to his legacy, to their family, to their marriage. His face was stern, focused and Sibella feared he would not even hear her plea.

       “For how long?” he inquired after a moment, pushing a hand through his greying hair.

        “Just for the wedding,” Sibella answered, her heart in her mouth, “and if we stay any longer, I shall write to inform you.”

Lionel shook his head at her as she had expected him to do so.

       “The Lannisters didn’t invite us for a reason, probably because of your family’s reputation. Having you accompany the D’ysquiths will only been seen as a sign of disrespect,” Lionel pointed out, and Sibella couldn’t help but at least agree to that. The Lannisters were a proud House. They did not invite those who they did not think are worthy and House Hallward was always groveling at their feet.

      “But think of your career, my dear?” Sibella posed. “If I accompany the D’ysquiths I can-”

He cut her off.

        “I should be going in your stead. What will the men think of me, having my wife go out and- “? he stumbled for the words.

She took his moment of pause to plead her case, seeing as now was her chance.

       “Seek favour from the Lannisters, gaining allies, speaking highly of your reputation so that Tywin Lannister might summon you to court to become a member on the Small Council.”

Lionel colored embarrassedly, glancing around at the trunks that Sibella had already packed for herself. He started to pace around the various pieces of luggage, his voice tutting as he thought the whole ordeal over. Sibella felt herself grow irate with impatience, for she had already promised Monty and Phoebe that she would be ready to leave by the sun’s set.

        “Sibella, I- “

        “The Lannisters will respect you for staying here in Lannisport to support your current endeavors. They’ll look upon that with favor, they must. Allowing me to go to the capital will show how dedicated you are towards your work.”

Lionel pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance, but Sibella could see that she was winning him over, even if it was out of pure irritation.

                “This is a great opportunity for us, Lionel. For our House. A chance to become favorites with House Lannister, to perhaps service them or,” she disguised her grimace as a smile, “have our children serve them as handmaidens or cupbearers. Perhaps wards of House Lannister even.”

His dark eyes lit up upon hearing those words, as if it had not occurred to him to do that. She knew she had him then, for Lionel caved whenever she brought up the possibility of furthering the family line.

Sibella rather hated thinking on having children with Lionel. For the two summers she had been married to him, she had avoided a pregnancy, to Lionel’s bitter disappointment and her utter relief. But still, she had to keep the hope alive, at least in some respect to keep the appearance of her marriage intact.

             “King’s Landing is a dangerous place.” He began to pace once more. Sibella gritted her teeth.

             “I think I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

Lionel scoffed. Sibella’s face flushed with anger, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

        “I promise you, I won’t come to harm’s way,” she murmured prettily.

Lionel came over to her, pressing a hand to her cheek.

She tried not to show her disgust for his touch. A smile replaced her inner shudder.

        “My darling husband, I swear to you I shall not lose my head. I’m only going for a wedding; how horrid can such a happy occasion be?”

She removed his hand from her face, instead placing it on her waist, and the other hand followed suit after a moment.

Lionel clucked his tongue.

        “What a shame it would be to lose such a pretty, pretty head,” he murmured, kissing her brow.

Sibella took her chance then.

        “Lord and Lady D’ysquith Navarro shall be here by the sun’s set to receive my things and then we shall be on our way.”

She pulled away before Lionel’s fingers had the chance to grasp at her waist once more. No more declarations of complaints passed from his lips.

Except, there was the ever-present question, the one that Lionel never ceased to stop asking.

        “We still have some time to ourselves,” he started, and Sibella already knew where he was going with this. She resisted the urge to protest, knowing that since he had given her something that it was only fair that she give him something in return, even if that thing was her body. Not that she really minded. Although, truth be told she’d much rather have Monty or Phoebe but there would be time for that later.

His hands grabbing at her skirt brought her out of her reverie. A tight smile fixed on her face.

       “Of course, my love,” Sibella uttered softly.

       They found themselves in the bedroom soon after, with Lionel on top of her, their clothes shed in haste, his hands grasping at her pale,thin shoulders while he thrusted into her. Sibella thought of anything else while Lionel’s breath was hot in her ear. She thought of Phoebe’s kisses on her thighs, of Monty’s lips sucking on her throat, anything but what was actually happening in that moment. For if she thought of Lionel, she feared that she’d turn sick and shove him off of her. Sibella kept her gaze on the opposite wall while Lionel finished, his mouth against her neck. It had been quick, of that Sibella was grateful. Her marriage duties to Lionel were nothing more than formalities, than an obligation. There was no love in her heart for him or for what they did in the bedroom.

She glanced up at the ceiling as he moved off of her, her hand propping her head up from behind at the base of her neck. She let out a long breath. She couldn’t wait to be in King’s Landing, with Monty and Phoebe a few feet away from her, where she could be able to be with them as she wished.

It would be dangerous, but it would be better than here because Lionel would not be around. No more of his hands groping at her skirt, of his thrusting, of his ever present, lingering gaze on her body.

        “I shall miss you while you’re away,” Lionel murmured, his hand tracing a line on her inner thigh. She wanted nothing more than to smack his hand away, but she locked her jaw instead.

Sibella bit back a grimace. Liar. He would miss the physical relations of having his wife at home, not Sibella herself.

        “And I you, my love,” she replied with a tilt of her head.

A moment of pure unfiltered silence passed between them as Lionel moved to get his clothes. He put them on, all the while his gaze on Sibella. She felt disgust rise up in her, for Lionel only looked at her as a vessel for children, as a source of physical pleasure. She had been a fool to marry him, but she had realized that too late.

A marriage to Monty would have been a thousand-fold more pleasurable and loving.

        “If you find that you are with child, I want you home straight away.”

The words caused Sibella to stiffen. The implication of it was almost laughable. She had half a mind to tell him that if she were to become with child, it would undoubtedly be Monty’s, and not Lionel’s. She had already procured enough moon tea, if the worst should happen.

But she pressed her tongue against her teeth hard for a moment before she answered.

        “I shall come home the day I learn the happy news.”

Lionel came over to sloppily kiss her cheek, his hand grazing her bare breasts. He then kissed her lips forcefully, his grip tightening. His other hand clutched at her hair, nearly yanking it as he brought her head up to kiss him.

She masked her face as soon as he pulled away, looking down at her.        

She made to get up, but Lionel cupped her cheek, kissing her again. Propped on her forearms, her body half upright, Sibella’s jaw tensed.

Luckily, the handmaiden knocked then, informing them of Lord and Lady D’ysquith Navarro’s arrival. Sibella couldn’t have been more pleased. She disguised her pleasure though with a forlorn expression as she dressed hastily, hiding it with light kisses to Lionel, who tried to squeeze her waist just a bit too tightly before she left.

Sibella didn’t look back once they settled into the carriage, not even for a second.

A new life, a new chance in King’s Landing. She had been fearful before, only because there were a greater number of enemies in King’s Landing than in Lannisport, but her doubts were soon soothed.

She trusted Monty, trusted that he would keep them safe from harm’s way. But above all, she trusted herself, because if she could survive being wife to Lionel, she could survive anything.

She smiled to herself.

        “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy,” Monty remarked quietly as the carriage took off.

        “I’m leaving Lionel, I couldn’t be happier,” she replied, a smirk on her lips. Her skin could still feel his hands on her and she repressed a light shudder. Her thoughts traveled to her womb, if she did find herself with child, what would she do. It frightened her to her core, and yet she willed herself to leave those thoughts behind here, in Lannisport, for she was going on a journey far away and such things were for home, not King’s Landing.

        “And he doesn’t suspect a thing?” Phoebe inquired, her eyes imploring. She tilted her head.

        “House Holland’s words ring true for both the strength and mind of its Lord. Tough as stone, I think dense as stone is more apt and correct. As well is dull as stone, but everyone can see that,” Sibella laughed.

        “If he had put up any hesitation in letting you go, I would have beaten him with a rock,” Monty interjected, leaning over to press a kiss to Sibella’s hand.

        “How barbaric of you, Montague,” she chided him, “I daresay this invitation to King’s Landing has turned your mind towards the gutters.”

Monty laughed.  Sibella pulled her hand away playfully, bringing it up to wind a gentle curl around her fingers.

        “You’d be happy if you returned home to a dead husband and a great fortune, my Sibella, don’t play coy with me.”

         Sibella only smiled.


	3. PHOEBE I

**Phoebe:**

        They hadn’t been in King’s Landing for more than a day and a half when a handmaiden of Margaery Tyrell had come to them, requesting the presence of all three of them at her garden party. Seeing as they couldn’t refuse the Queen to be, Phoebe had accepted the invitation, telling the handmaiden that they would be there by midday. Sibella had made a face when Phoebe told her.

        “The Tyrells are nothing more than rose scented lions, only they are not so obvious in their ways of manipulating and deceiving.”

        Phoebe frowned, “Sibella, isn’t this what you wanted? Tea with the Queen. It’s a lovely way to meet new people, seeing as how we’ve barely been out of the Red Keep since arriving here.”

        “Margaery Tyrell is the Queen to be, she is not _the Queen_.” she scoffed. She then continued, “We’re not here to make friends with the Tyrells, especially considering the fact that we serve House Lannister.”

        “Well, I’ve already accepted, so you’ll just have to go to this one garden party at least.”

         Phoebe gave her no time to make any further complaints.

         By midday the sun was hot, but the shade from the pavilion in the garden was just enough to keep them all cool. Phoebe had chosen her wardrobe carefully, since she was formally still in mourning for her family, so a gown of deep purple seemed to be suitable, with her hair pulled back, the tiniest detailing of silver stitching in the hem.

         Monty had dressed similarly. A dark tunic with pants to match. Phoebe thought he looked rather handsome, if not a bit brooding in all of the black. But then again, it was custom after all.

        Sibella looked radiant, but she always did so. Dressed in a beautiful shade of rose with gold stitching to match her hair.

        The three of them did, however, clash with the pastel colors the Tyrells were all wearing. The Stark girl did as well. She wore a gown of deep purple, sitting beside who Phoebe could only guess was Lady Margaery, and to her left Olenna Tyrell. The older woman was unmistakable. The Queen of Thorns indeed.

        The conversation turned into a quiet murmur as soon as the three of them had been announced. Margaery stood, graceful as ever, her brown curls bouncing as she came forward to greet them. She wore a gown of light green, with a golden rose pin. Her hair too was held loosely in place by a rose clasp.

        “Lord and Lady D’ysquith, I am so pleased that you came. Come, sit, my ladies and I were waiting for your arrival.” Two of her handmaidens pulled out chairs. Margaery then turned to Sibella.

        “Lady Holland, please come join us as well. I’m ever so delighted to make your acquaintance.”

         Sibella gave her a stiff nod in return. She sat down next to Phoebe, in the middle of the table.

         Phoebe found herself face to face with the Stark girl across the table. She was quite a beauty, and yet Phoebe sensed that the girl was frightened. It didn’t help that the poor girl seemed to be locked in between the Tyrells, literally and figuratively.

         Phoebe tried to keep positive though, maybe the Tyrells were her friends. Her allies. A girl like Sansa Stark needed allies here in King’s Landing.

         Sansa made brief eye contact with her before lowering her gaze back down to her plate. Two lemon cakes sat untouched upon it.

        “Lord D’ysquith, seeing as you are the only male within our flock of hens, we are quite surprised that you have joined us,” The Queen of Thorns crooked a finger under her chin, leaning towards him.

        “I never could pass up a garden party, Lady Olenna,” Monty smiled, “My lady wife,  Lady Holland, and myself have been rather busy unpacking but we were delighted to receive an invitation, a chance to socialize.”

        Lady Olenna’s eyes raked over Sibella and Phoebe.

        “And does the capital seem to be agreeing with you, Lady D’ysquith?”

        Phoebe forced a small smile on her face.

        “Yes, indeed I believe it is. In particular I find these gardens to be so lovely, I have such at home and I always find them to be a source of comfort.”

        Olenna Tyrell pursed her lips.

        “Indeed, my dear. But the gardens here in King’s Landing pale in comparison to the ones at Highgarden. You should visit us sometime, after all of this mess is over and done with. I find the capital to be quite stifling, in more ways than one.”

        Phoebe sipped on her wine as Lady Olenna’s attention turned to Sibella.

        “And of you, Lady Holland, what do you think of King’s Landing?”

        Phoebe hoped, nay, prayed that Sibella at least would be civil. Her fingers clutched at the goblet of wine in front of her, hoping that Sibella could sense her uneasiness.

       “I’m finding it quite lovely so far, although all I’ve seen are my apartments in the Red Keep.”

       “Your husband did not accompany you on this journey?” The Queen of Thorns was quick to switch to what she really wanted to discuss.

        “Lord Holland has business to attend to in Lannisport. He hopes to come to the capital soon, but for now he has sent me, along with his regards.”

         “I met Lord Holland’s father once. A bumbling idiot from what I could tell. Do tell us, Lady Holland, does your husband possess any more brains than his father had?”

         Sibella’s lips twitched. Phoebe held her breath. She knew that Sibella wanted nothing more than to divulge into how her husband was nothing more than an idiot, but thankfully, Margaery stepped in.

        “Grandmother, please! What will our guests think of us with you questioning them so intently?” She blushed prettily, and took a sip of her wine.

         “I’m merely having a conversation, dear girl. I’m sure Lady Holland does not mind.”

          Lady Olenna glanced at Sibella, and Sibella, brazen on her part, seemed to stare right back at Lady Olenna, which made the Queen of Thorns snort, and obviously satisfied with her questioning, let the conversation turn back towards her granddaughter and her handmaidens.

         The rest of the luncheon was filled with mindless chatter, the sort that Phoebe didn’t mind listening to. Sibella found it endlessly stuffy, but Phoebe didn’t mind hearing about how each of the girls were getting on in King’s Landing, how some had found suitors, others were merely content to flirt. Names escaped her memory completely. Each girl seemed to be almost identical to the next, so it did not seem to matter anyways.

        “Unless any of you receive a cloak upon your shoulders to prove fruition to these idiotic matchmaking dreams of yours, I’d say you’re all just talk,” Lady Olenna interjected, “Lady Sansa’s got the right of it. A marriage, and to a Lannister at that.”

        The poor girl paled at that. She swallowed hard.

        The table went quiet for a moment.

        Tyrion Lannister wasn’t the worst Lannister to be married off to, but considering current circumstances, it was rather unfair for the match to be between the poor Stark girl, and the Imp. Phoebe had only met him once or twice, he had been kept away most of the time when she had visited Casterly Rock with her brother Henry, but nonetheless she had met him. Monty told her that Sibella claimed that she saw him lurking in the sewers of Casterly Rock, down by the beaches where she and Monty used to court in their youth.

        “Have you picked out your gown, Lady Sansa?” Phoebe found herself changing the subject, if only to cease the stiff air that was looming in the garden.

        “I- The Queen, Queen Regent I mean, she says that she’s had a seamstress make me one. I haven’t seen it yet,” the girl stammered, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

        “If you could have any gown you want, what would it look like?” Phoebe inquired, noticing the sad, forlorn expression on Sansa’s face.

        Sansa took a breath, her hands twisting once more.

        “I’d like a gown of shimmering silver, or white, with a direwolf’s head embroidered on the collar, and maybe in the train,” she paused, “But the direwolf is the sigil of my family and my family are traitors, so I gather I’ll be wearing a gown of golden lions.”

        “A pity, I’d say,” remarked Olenna,”All that gold will surely clash with your pale complexion. You Northerners are not well suited to such a ghastly color as gold. Silver, or white would look quite nice with your hair, Lady Sansa,” Lady Olenna gave her a smile.

       Sansa smiled softly, before ducking her head down towards her lap.

        “I think that you’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear on your wedding day,” Margaery interjected softly, a gentle smile towards Sansa.

       The girl blushed, a small smile on her face.

        “Not as beautiful as you will, Your Grace.”

        “Sansa, I told you to call me Margaery. We’re friends, you and I. If not, we’ll be relatives by blood soon enough, for after you marry Tyrion, I’ll marry Joffrey.”

        “Aunt by marriage my dear. Lady Sansa will be your Aunt by marriage. Not the least confusing relationship in that family I can assure you,” Olenna laughed, as did the other ladies.

        “Isn’t it true that you and Lady D’ysquith are cousins, Lord D’ysquith Navarro. Technically speaking, I mean?”

Lady Olenna turned to her guests once more. Monty coughed politely, trying to buy time.

        “Technically speaking,” he got out.

        “At least you are not any closer,” Olenna quipped, “That’s when things start to get dangerous, as you well know.”

        The Queen and the Kingslayer, her twin brother.

        Phoebe’s eyes turned back to Lady Sansa.

         “I’m very sorry to hear about your father, Lady Sansa,” Phoebe started. She didn’t know why she said it, why she even dared, for the Stark name was associated with traitors, and yet she couldn’t help but sympathize, after having lost her own family so soon. “But I do hope you are able to find some happiness here in King’s Landing.”

         Lady Sansa went white. Her teeth chewed on her bottom lip as she ducked her head.

        “Perhaps you’ll visit Highgarden someday,” supplied Margaery, sensing the girl’s discomfort.

         Sansa glanced at her. “I think I would very much like to visit Highgarden.”

         Lady Olenna Tyrell pursed her lips at that. “If you had married Loras or Willas, that could have been arranged, but it seems that the Lannisters have snapped you up in their claws. A pity really, you would have been well suited to Highgarden, Lady Sansa.”

         Olenna continued without giving the girl room to respond, “Now, Lord D’ysquith… you must tell us how exactly did Lord Adalbert die? Last time I saw him, he was right as rain, well as right as rain as an old man like him could have been.”

        “The maesters declared it an affliction of the heart. A freak accident.”

        Lady Olenna gave a small smile.

        “Ah yes, Westeros seems to be filled with supposed freak accidents nowadays, I’ve heard many things come from it; shadow babies, dragons, magic. Tell me, Lord D’ysquith, do you believe such a thing?”

        “I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but I believe that such accidents can occur.”

        “It was all rather strange. The whole affair, I mean, how does eight family members die off in such quick succession?” Lady Olenna bent her elbow to put her chin in her hands.

         Phoebe stiffened and Sibella subtly, quietly took her hand underneath the table. For as much annoyance her family had given her, she had loved them, in their own way. The fact that they had all died in such short a time had been traumatizing. And yet the Queen of Thorns seemed not to care for Phoebe’s emotions. She seemed to be trying to get at something, a ridiculous insinuation.

       Monty simply smiled at her, giving her no satisfaction.

       “I believe we should get back to the Keep, we still have quite a bit of unpacking to do,” he declared after a moment, interrupting a conversation between Sibella and one of the Tyrell girls about the prospects of suitors in Lannisport.

       He took Phoebe’s hand before rising out of his chair. He bowed, and then with his other hand, he took Sibella’s.

       “My thanks, my ladies, for a most entertaining luncheon.”

       “You shall have to come hawking Lady Phoebe, Lady Sibella, for Lady Sansa and I do enjoy it so much,” Lady Margaery rose as well, as did the rest of them. Only Lady Olenna remained seated.

        “I doubt Lady Sansa will have time for hawking before or after her wedding, not if the Lannisters are what I know them to be,” retorted Olenna.

        Sansa took a gulp of her wine, as if to swallow her nerves.

       “We would love to join you,” Phoebe supplied with a gracious smile. “Please let us know the next time you venture out and we shall strive to accompany you.”

        Margaery smiled with a nod.

       With that, Monty went with them on their walk back to the Red Keep.

       Monty’s arm linked to hers, and Sibella kept pace with them. They couldn’t link arms like this, not in public, not when they had just arrived.

        “Did what Lady Olenna had to say bother you, my love?” Monty inquired softly.

        Phoebe bit her lip.

        “No, not much,” she replied.

        “Good. If she says anything like that again, you and Sibella have my permission to never speak with the Tyrells again.”

        “I doubt we can manage that, with Margaery becoming queen.”

        “She was incredibly insensitive,” Sibella piped in.

        “She reminded me of my Lady Aunt,” Phoebe thought of Lady Eugenia, who was as quick tempered and evenly matched as Lady Olenna. The thought of the two of them together for a luncheon was mildly entertaining, “It really was no different.”

        “If you’re sure?” Monty glanced at her.

        She nodded, “Of course I’m sure. I’m not going to let the Queen of Thorns get in my way of meeting with those in King’s Landing.”

        “And what of Sansa Stark? What did you think of her?” Sibella’s question was poised, as if she already knew what Phoebe was going to say.

        “A lovely girl. So timid though, as if she’s afraid of even herself.”

        Sibella eyed her.

       “Phoebe, you cannot invite Sansa Stark for sweets. We serve House Lannister, we can’t have the traitor in our midst, no matter how unhappy she is.”

        Phoebe looked down as she walked, “I think just once, just to extend a friendly hand. She seems so wretched, Sibella, it’s the least I could do.”

        Sibella frowned.

        “Then I sincerely hope you don’t lose your head for it.”


	4. SIBELLA II

**Sibella:**

       Sibella received a letter from Lionel the morning of the wedding. A handmaiden delivered it to her chambers, but she merely tossed it on the side table and resumed her state of dressing. She had graciously been bestowed her own apartments, after Monty expressing to her that the fact that all three of them in one apartment might raise some questions. Of course, it was no matter for Phoebe and Monty to share a common apartment, with each having a separate chamber, but to add Sibella into the mix was rather daring.

       So, Sibella was regulated to the rooms next door. She didn’t mind the quiet, nor the privacy, for it had been quite some time since she’d been left alone.

       Finding the silence stifling in the early morning, she hummed softly to herself whilst buttoning the side of her dress. A modest choice on her part, of a pale shade of red just veering into being somewhat pink. It was a mild day in King’s Landing, not too warm, but not too cold either. She probably could have done without the half sleeves but Sibella liked how they looked so she kept them.

       She sat at her mirror, brushing her blonde hair lightly so that her loose curls bounced with each stroke of her brush. The handle had been cracked slightly from the journey here, an unfortunate incident for she had had this brush since she was a young girl. It was silver, almost an opaque glass (Monty remarked that it almost looked like Dragonglass, as if he knew what that looked like). The carved details were of the Maiden and the Mother, a gift from her mother. Sibella hadn’t been one for religion, she had been raised in the eyes of the Seven, but she appreciated it all the same.

        The split in the handle was ironically between the depictions of the Mother and the Maiden, Sibella surmised as she glanced at it while pausing at her habitual morning routine. She ran her thumb over the crack, feeling the split between the space that was created by the accident. She guessed that it had smashed against something in her belongings.

         A knock at the door startled her, she put down the brush and rose to see who it was at the door. Phoebe opened it after Sibella called out for those who knocked to enter. A warm smile filled Sibella’s face upon seeing her.

         “Your new gown looks lovely,” Phoebe remarked, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.

        “Thank you, my sweet,” replied Sibella as she sat down beside her. She turned to glance at Phoebe, a small smile on her face as she took in Phoebe’s blue gown, a new one for the wedding.

          Slowly, tentatively, Sibella’s fingers reached for Phoebe’s. Her index finger wrapped itself around Phoebe’s, feeling the warmth, the comfort, the security of Phoebe’s own skin against hers.

          Sibella found herself leaning her head on Phoebe’s shoulder tenderly, their hands clasped together in a moment of quiet contemplation, of silence.

          “Do you think this has been a mistake?” Phoebe’s voice was soft, a mere murmur for she knew that all of the walls in the Red Keep had ears, that the Lannisters and the Tyrells had spies everywhere.

           “I hope not,” replied Sibella, glancing down at her dress. “For I doubt we’re surely to get out of here alive if this has been a mistake.”

           Phoebe curled herself closer to Sibella, her fingers giving Sibella’s a light squeeze. It took everything in Sibella not to embrace Phoebe, to kiss her, to make her feel better with her touch. But she knew she couldn’t. Not here.

        “Monty’s rather convinced that everything will be fine,” Phoebe whispered.

          Sibella snorted, “Montague has a rather large ego at the moment, I gather he would be convinced that flying pigs and dragons roamed the skies if he so chose.”

         Phoebe laughed at that, her face pressing against Sibella’s soft blonde hair.

          Sibella smiled in return, if only because Phoebe’s laugh was so infectious, so lovable, so pure.

         “Are you still planning on inviting the Stark girl for sweets?”

         “Her name is Sansa, Sibella,” Phoebe said pointedly, “and yes I believe I am.”

          Sibella glanced at her.

         “Why?” The question was in sincere earnest for as far as Sibella could tell the girl was nothing more than a pawn. Sibella chose to spend her time around players, not gallivanting around with pawns that could be taken so easily from them.

        “She’s lost most of her family, and so have I. I feel like it’s only fair for the girl to have a true friend here,” Phoebe explained.

          Sibella bit her lip.

         “But we’re not her true friends. We can’t ever be, my love.”

         “Just because the Starks are considered traitors to Cersei Lannister doesn’t mean that-“

        “This isn’t Lannisport, my love,” Sibella interjected, “Everything is different now. We must careful about whom we interact with, and with whom we are seen interacting with.”

        “It’s entirely backwards,” Phoebe uttered with a pout.

         Sibella let out a long exhale, “I know, my love, I know.”

         “Do you think it was a mistake for us to come here?” Phoebe posed the question in a quiet tone, her fingers dancing at the end of her braid. She glanced at Sibella carefully, trying to read her face.

         Another bite to her lip. A long pause.

        “Perhaps,” Sibella whispered. Her fingers detangled themselves from Phoebe’s grasp then.

          “We should get dressed. We don’t want to be late,” Sibella said, and Phoebe took her cue. Lightly, a chaste kiss from Phoebe brushed against Sibella’s cheek as she left.

           Sibella closed her door and her heart to it all.

           The wedding ceremony was short. Trivial and unimportant compared to the fact that the real royal wedding was to be had within a few week’s time between Joffrey and Margaery.

           Sibella wasn’t sure what to think of their new Queen to be. Young she was, true, and yet there was an air of calculation, of pragmatism hiding behind those doe-like eyes of hers. Something was off putting about the girl. Maybe it was the how sickeningly sweet the girl was, how her smiles were ever present, how her eyes locked on with yours. After all, Sibella had always been a girl to be jealous of those who were prettier, of those who were better at the game than herself. But Margaery was just a child, a guided one at that. Shoved into a situation by her Grandmother, the Queen of Thorns.

         So the girl was not entirely to blame, but still. Sibella found her irritating, an annoying thorn in her side. After all the Tyrells themselves weren’t the most loyal of families, to think otherwise was just sheer blindness.

          Sibella found herself glaring at the girl who stood in attendance, up near the front with her family; her father, brother, and grandmother. The lot of them had infiltrated King’s Landing rather easily, as weeds do in a garden. Although if Sibella had found herself in a similar position, she would have done the same. To be crowned Queen would have been glorious. To be admired and revered by the whole of the Seven Kingdoms would have been a dream. Yet, the reality of it all would have been overbearing. The constant stress, enemies lurking behind every corner, a crown dripping with blood. Not to mention the fact that Sibella’s arrangement with Phoebe and Monty would have never transpired, could have never lasted if she had been Queen. She would have been stuck with Lionel. What a horrid thought.

          She stiffened at the possibility, a lump in her throat, dread slithering up her stomach.  She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing the thought from her mind. Sibella opened her eyes after a few seconds, and took in a deep breath, trying to focus on the event that was unfolding in front of her.

          Her eyes felt drawn to the fiery red locks of the bride.

          The Stark girl. Sansa.

           She reminded Sibella of herself at one point, long ago, long, long ago. A naïve child. An innocent. Despite what Sibella put up with Phoebe, she did feel for the girl. Sibella wasn’t completely heartless, but it was too risky, too telling if they became friends with the girl.

           She glanced at the bride, who looked half mortified, half ashamed at her own marriage. Sibella didn’t blame her. True to what she had said the other day, the Lannisters had dressed her in gold, which clashed with her beautiful red hair. A pity, Sibella thought.

           The Imp, Tyrion Lannister, with his scar and all, looked uncomfortable as well. As he tried to put the cloak over his new bride’s shoulders, he had to embarrassingly whisper into her ear for her to kneel so he could reach.

           Sibella heard a few loud snickers echo through the Sept, seemingly coming from up front. The laughter continued throughout the rest of the guests until it faded to a dull hush.

           The bride and groom turned to head out of the Sept, each looking as uncomfortable as the other. It was then that the rest of the guests began to depart.

            First was King Joffrey, he looked as amused as a child would be at a puppet show, a gleeful smirk on his face. Obviously this was due to the fact that his least favorite Uncle was now married to the daughter of a traitor, a humiliating event for the couple. Sibella did not like him much as she looked upon him.

            Next was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer in his Kingsguard cloak, his golden hand shining in the sunlight. Ever since his incident with Catelyn Stark, Jaime’s usual cockiness had faded, and he seemed more a man than a soldier nowadays. Sibella still found him devastatingly attractive, even if he was known to lay with his own sister. Something about those green eyes, his smile reminded Sibella of the knight of her dreams who would come to Lannisport to save her from a horrible marriage.

           Tywin Lannister was unmistakable and the room fell into a quiet hush as his eyes surveyed the crowd. Sibella felt a cold draft on her skin as his eyes briefly landed on her. Her stomach twisted. The man she had heard so much about, their liege Lord up in Casterly Rock. He was as intimidating as Sibella had expected him to be, for he held the weight of the reputation of House Lannister on his shoulders. His face was stern, his gaze unreadable.

          A moment passed in silence. It was then that Sibella got her first real glimpse of Cersei Lannister.

          Cersei was… more proud and smug than Sibella had ever imagined her to be. A haughty look on her face that screamed royalty and privilege and an air of snobbery that Sibella had always assumed of House Lannister. Growing up, House Hallward had not been in good favor with the Lannisters due to her father’s poor decision making. Sure they had more than enough money, but they somehow were always just out of reach of the true nobles and aristocracy. They were never invited to any galas. When Rhaegar Targaryen had come to seek out Cersei, and play his harp with the most beautiful of melodies, Sibella had sobbed because an invitation had not gone out to her father, nor the rest of them. Every day she wondered what it would be like to live up on that rock, to see the world from up high, knowing that one had it all.

        Cersei’s golden hair hung in loose ringlets around her taunt face. Those green eyes gleamed, a small, ever present smirk upon her red lips. A gown of dark red adorned her slim figure. Sibella glanced at her own dress, and felt small in comparison.

         It was stupid, she knew, to admire the Lannisters so much, when her own name (not to mention her married name) was as good as the shit that covered the streets of Flea Bottom to them. But she couldn’t help it. Cersei Lannister was living the life that Sibella had always wanted for herself. And yet… it seemed as of late… that that dream was crashing around Cersei’s feet. With an unfavorable reputation amongst the smallfolk, Stannis’ rebellion, the Tyrells aiding King’s Landing, Cersei Lannister seemed only a figurehead amongst others who were doing the actual work for her. The lion had lost control, another animal had come to take its place.

         Knowing the Lannisters, Sibella knew it wouldn’t last long. But still, if there was as good a chance as any to get in with the Lannisters, to ease herself into a favorable position, it was now, in this time of peace, of calm.

         Little Prince Tommen was trying to keep pace with his mother, and avoid his stern Septa at all costs. Sibella watched them leave the Sept, the sunlight shining in their golden hair as they hid in their carriages to return to the Red Keep.

        Soon, Sibella found Phoebe tugging gently on her arm.

       “Shall we go to the banquet?” Phoebe posed, a small smile on her face.

        It took Sibella a moment to answer, for she had been so deep in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized that a good portion of the guests had already begun the walk back to the Red Keep. She bit her lip.

        “Yes, I believe we should.”

 

       The room in the Red Keep was filled with people from various Houses, and Sibella found herself craning her neck to see the particular faces in midst of the crowds. The group consisted of mostly Tyrells and Lannisters, a dangerous combination in any matter.

        Sibella’s eyes traveled to the various familiar faces in the room. She recognized Olenna Tyrell from the other day, sitting with her grandchildren. Mace Tyrell was off, boring other members of House Lannister to death.  Cersei sat with Joffrey, Prince Tommen had gone to bed a short time beforehand. Joffrey looked gleeful as ever, and his gaze was trained on Sansa Stark. Sibella felt bile rise up in her as she saw the look in his eyes.

        She had heard, from rumors around Lannisport that the boy treated like the Stark girl like a plaything, like an animal to torment, and the mere thought of such a horrid thing made Sibella feel ill. She hoped that even though this marriage was not what she had wanted, at least it would provide some protection of the girl from the boy king. Hopefully.

        Monty found her then, having left Phoebe to converse with some of the ladies from House Tyrell. He stood a good lengths away, for if he stood any closer, people would whisper.

       “Do you think they’ll be happy?” he asked, glancing towards Tyrion and Sansa.

        The poor girl looked embarrassed, as her husband filled himself in his cups, clearly already quite drunk. Her face was nearly as red as her hair.

        “No,” Sibella answered truthfully, honestly, “Most people who enter marriages aren’t.”

        “Phoebe and I are.”

         Sibella chuckled darkly, sipping on her wine to hide her amusement. Sometimes Monty could be so dense.

        “How very lucky for you.”

        “Sibella I-” he started, realizing his mistake.

         She faced him, her eyes stern.

         Monty looked like he wanted to say more, but Sibella decided for him that this conversation was over. She said nothing, and simply walked straight into the impending crowd in front of her, to join the guests in the festivities.

        She didn’t want to think on her marriage,nor on  Lionel. Not now, not here. Not when everything so precariously stood in the balance, how everything was to be calculated here in this place.

        The _last_ thing on her mind was Lionel.


	5. MONTY II

**Monty:**

      Phoebe remained curled in his arms the next morning when the servant boy came to knock on their door, declaring that they had been summoned to court to see the King.

      Monty received the news while Phoebe slept, his face calm.

      He was not afraid of Joffrey Baratheon, especially after he had taken stock of him at the wedding yesterday.

       The King, child more like it, seemed to be a tempermental, whiny brat with too much power. He was not threatening, at least to Monty, because one could outwit him. He was no scarier than a cat in a dark alleyway. He tried, Monty could give him that, he did try to act like a King to be fearful of. Gods alone knew how he tormented Sansa Stark, and yet Joffrey was merely a puppet, his strings being pulled by those on the Small Council and most importantly his Grandfather.

       Tywin Lannister was the man Monty feared if there was anyone he did in fact have to be fearful of in this place.

        He accepted the summons, taking the piece of paper in his hands. The servant departed shortly. Monty shut the door and looked back towards the bed to find Phoebe stirring. He set the paper down on the side table and went to wake her. He nestled himself close to her under the light sheets, for it was quite warm here in King’s Landing. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her in for a quick kiss to her temple, which elicited a small and sleepy smile out of her.

        “Good morning, my love,” he whispered in her ear.

         She smirked, a quiet murmur of approval slipping past her lips as she turned over to face him. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing dark irises.

         “Good morning, Monty,” she said, her fingers at the end of her braid playfully.

         “How did you sleep?” he questioned.

         “Better than expected. I think I’m getting quite used to this bed.”

          “It’s stiffer than the one back in Highhurst. If I had known I would have brought our mattress.”

           Phoebe smiled.

          “Who was that at the door, or was I dreaming?”

          He glanced towards the summons. Biting his lip, he took a moment to answer.

          “It was from the King.”

           Phoebe’s eyes went wide at that.

           “Today?”

           “Well, it is after his Uncle’s wedding. Surely he has the time now to meet us both.”

           Phoebe chewed on her bottom lip hard.  Monty took her hand, kissing it.

           “I will not let him berate you or harm you,” he promised her.

           “I know that, it’s just…”

           Her gaze fell away towards the floor.

           Monty cupped her cheek after a few moments of silence. She glanced back at him, grateful.

          “Nothing will happen.” Monty swore. His words rang firm. He didn’t have the heart to tell Phoebe that words were wind, and that nothing was set in stone. Of their future in King’s Landing, he was certain of nothing.

           But Monty was not about to put those thoughts upon his precious Phoebe’s head. Phoebe, although an incredibly strong woman, would wilt like a flower if she knew just how dangerous they’re being here was. He had a strong suspicion she knew, but if she did, she did not let on.

           Monty was worried about a trial. An investigation.

           Lord Tywin and Lord Adalbert, while mutual alliances at best, did not know one well enough, it seemed too much of coincidence that everyone in Westeros was dropping likes flies for the Crown not to take a sudden interest in the newly appointed Lord of Highhurst. After all, rumors had circulated. Whispers had been told in the alleyways at night, that Monty had wiped out the entire D’ysquith family in one fell swoop, much like Lord Tywin had done with House Reyne.

_“And now the rains weep o’er the halls, and not a soul to hear.”_

            There had been some speculation that the D’ysquiths had died far too quickly in succession with one another, and that standing behind at every turn had been Monty. For it was true that he had done it. He had killed them. Slaughtered all eight of them mostly without hesitation, for the realm needed to be rid of many of the D’ysquith family in his opinion. But still, the public didn’t need to know.

           Seven Hells, neither did Sibella or Phoebe for that matter. He intended on taking this secret to the grave, and far beyond.

            Yet, if there was a trial, an inquest, his secret would be blown. If Joffrey, or worse Cersei or Tywin even suspected foul play, now would be the time to pounce on having a trial for the newly appointed Lord of Highhurst. If that happened,  Phoebe would be devastated, her love would turn to hate. Sibella would be horrified, her intimacy would turn into cold distance. If they knew the truth, he would never be able to have them. Never be able to keep them as they are now. He loved them both, and could not… would not dare put such a horrid, terrifying fact that he was a murderer into their heads.

          Not that many people in King’s Landings weren’t murderers. This court wasn’t from a song, as Phoebe enjoyed likening it to, this court was a pit filled with vipers and lions, who had done their fair share of killing in order to survive this so called pit of chaos and murder.

          To kill or be killed was Monty’s motto at the current moment.

          “Should Sibella come too?”

           Phoebe’s words brought him back to the bedroom. He caressed her cheek softly as he thought.

           “No, best to leave her here. The King specifically requested our presence. We can bring her along next time, but I think we better go to the summons ourselves.”

          Phoebe frowned, raising an eyebrow.

          “She won’t like that, you know.”

           Monty resisted the urge to sigh and run his hands through his hair in exasperation. He knew perfectly well how Sibella would react to not being invited to court to meet the King, how she’d be insulted, how she’d feel horribly left out.

          “I’ll deal with Sibella,” he said at last.

           Phoebe leaned her head on his chest, closing her eyes for a moment.

          “Shall we get dressed then? We have a rather big day ahead of us,” she murmured after a few seconds of peace. Monty nodded, kissing the top of her head gently before climbing out of the bed to dress.

           As soon as he was done, he went to go tell Sibella, leaving Phoebe to finish applying her makeup and fixing her hair.

           He left his own room and went to knock on the door that was directly next to their compartments.

           Knocking only twice, Sibella answered after a moment.

           Her face brightened upon seeing him, and Monty couldn’t help but smile in return. He longed to embrace her, to kiss her freely, but there were too many spies to dare that.

           He settled on being allowed into her room. She shut the door, making sure that their encounter was away from prying ears.

           “You’re up early,” Sibella remarked, twirling around to face him, her pink dress billowing out as she spun. She seemed in good spirits, as to what about, Monty wasn’t sure. The embarrassing incident at the reception dinner last night had sombered all of the guests in the Red Keep, for Tyrion Lannister had gone and gotten himself drunk to the point of no return. And with this news of a summons, Monty felt no such joy at this moment.

           “I received a summons. From King Joffrey,” Monty said slowly, deliberately.

           Her face dimmed.

            “So soon?” she drummed her fingers on a side table, “The wedding was last evening…”

           “I suppose now is as good a time as ever,” Monty shrugged. Sibella’s eyes slanted at that.

           “Have you told Phoebe?”

            A nod. “I told her and left her to dress.”

            Sibella walked over to him, her fingers gently tugging on his lapel of his tunic.

            “Oh, Monty. Do be careful,” she implored him, her eyes wide. Her bottom lip trembled so.

            Without thinking he instinctively wrapped his arms around her, finding peace, comfort, familiarity in the embrace.  He gathered that Sibella felt much the same, but she broke away soon, putting a good distance between them.

            One hand reached out to lightly caress her cheek.

            “Phoebe and I shall be back later this afternoon, to inform you all about it. I fear you must stay here, for appearance’s sake more than anything else.”

             Her golden curls hid her face as she glanced at the floor.

            “The King only asked for Phoebe and I,” he continued, “It might aggravate him if we bring you too.”

             That seemed to quell her anger, her disappointment. She was quiet.

             “I can understand that.” She picked up her head to look at him, her teeth biting into her lip.

             “Put in a good word for House Holland, if the opportunity arises,” she demanded lightly.

              Monty grimaced. “For Lionel, you mean?”

               For me? Please?” her voice was small.

              Monty couldn’t resist, he nodded at her request.

              “You should get going, don’t want to be late for the King,” she chided him.

              “As soon as we’re through, we’ll both come back and tell you all about it.”

              She nodded, swallowing hard. Monty kissed her lips quietly before he left.

              The Throne Room was even more impressive than Monty had originally expected. Of course he had heard of the magnificence of the room, when Aegon Targaryen had been sitting in the Iron Throne. He had never been to King’s Landing before though, so seeing the splendor first hand was sobering.

              All eyes were on he and Phoebe as they entered through the doors. The room fell to a hush. Phoebe’s grip on his hand tightened as they walked, but she showed no signs of faltering. Only a faint sense of fear in her eyes, but that was to be expected.

              Monty, however, looked up at the boy on the Iron Throne with a cool demeanor. He looked small in it. It clearly didn’t fit him. Try as he might, Joffrey didn’t look comfortable on it, not with all of its sharp swords edges jutting out, piercing the skin when it was least expected.

              His crown gleamed in the sunlight, along with the rest of the steel that surrounded him. He leaned forward in the great iron chair, leering at them.

              “Lord and Lady D’ysquith,” his voice echoed through the quiet room, “Come forth,” he urged them on with a wave of his hand.

               Phoebe glanced at Monty fearfully. Her fingers tensed on his. They walked until they came near the Iron Throne.

               Monty took a sweeping look at who sat before him towards the side of the Iron Throne. Cersei Lannister, looking as smug as ever. Tywin Lannister, his face stern and unreadable. Grand Maester Pycelle lurked in the background, as did Lord Baelish and Lord Varys. Quite a turnout for the newly appointed Lord of Highhurst. Monty’s stomach turned as he feared the worst.

               “Your Grace,” Monty started with a polite, cordial smile, and a bow towards the King. “May I present myself, Lord Montague D’ysquith Navarro, and my lady wife, Lady Phoebe D’ysquith.”

                “Yes, yes, that’s all well and good,” Joffrey sounded bored. His hands wrapped around the edges of the swords. He looked to Monty, and then his gaze settled on Phoebe.

                Monty glanced towards Phoebe to see that her smile had dimmed just slightly.

               “My Mother tells me that your family ran into quite a bit of unfortunate accidents which left most of them dead, Lady D’ysquith. Tell me, were any of your family of unfavorable stock?” he picked at his nails, and then looked to Phoebe, his eyes gleaning.

               “Y-Your Grace?” Phoebe’s voice was timid.

               “Degenerates? Imps? Must I really go through the list?” his tone sounded annoyed.

               “No, no Your Grace, not to my knowledge,” Phoebe stammered.

              “Well, women tend to overlook these things, don’t they? I doubt you would have noticed,” Joffrey said cruelly.

               He turned his attention towards Monty then.

               Monty raised his chin.

               “Don’t you think it rather strange, Lord D’ysquith, how your position was so easily attained?”

                He took a moment to answer, knowing that those around Joffrey would be intently listening to his reply.

               “Death, although unfortunate, is not so strange, Your Grace. I agree that this many deaths warrants some sort of alarm, but I do not think it has any relation to my newfound position.”

               “Lord Adalbert served with my Grandfather, Grandfather said that he was always a pompous over-reacher,” remarked Joffrey, indicating to Tywin.  Monty stiffened as he felt Tywin’s firm gaze on him.

               But it was Joffrey’s reply that reminded Monty to breathe.

               “I say good riddance. Besides, we need more subjects loyal to the Crown.”

                His eyes peered at Monty again.

               “Have you and your wife come to pledge your allegiance to me, and me alone? As your King?”

               “We have, Your Grace,” Monty answered, standing up straight.

                Joffrey smirked.

               “Continue then, my Lord,” he waved Monty on.

                Monty recited the words the summons had told him to say with perfect clarity. Phoebe repeated the same.

                Silence filled the room afterwards until Joffrey came down from the throne.

                “I accept your allegiance,” he said as he stood on the floor. “You and your wife are welcome here in King’s Landing. I insist that you stay for my wedding. It’s surely to be a better affair than my poor excuse of an Uncle’s.” Joffrey laughed. Cersei smirked from her place near him.

               “We would be delighted, Your Grace,” Monty bowed while Phoebe curtseyed.

                Joffrey nodded, glancing over Phoebe again before turning his attention to the members of the Small Council who stood behind him.

               “We are adjourned for the rest of the day,” he announced, “You may all leave.”

                With a quick grasp of her hand, Monty led Phoebe out of the Throne Room quickly, wanting to leave as soon as possible. They exited from the room, happily avoiding the interruptions from the other noble families who had tried to flock to them to start a conversation, but Monty murmured some excuses, saying that Phoebe felt quite ill.

                They made their way back to their compartments with Monty holding Phoebe’s hand tightly. Monty kept quiet, not knowing exactly what to say to his wife after having been publicly reminded of her family’s deaths. He squeezed her hand lightly and she gave him a brief, fleeting ghost of a smile upon returning back to their apartments. Once inside, Monty let out a breath that he had not realized he had been holding.

               No trial, or inquest for now.

              They were safe- he was safe for the time being.


	6. PHOEBE II

**Phoebe:**

        That afternoon, Phoebe and Sibella set out for a walk around the gardens for some fresh air. The confrontation with Joffrey earlier that day had ignited Phoebe’s nerves, and Monty prescribed a walk would do the trick. Phoebe had asked for Sibella, seeing as she hadn’t seen much of her since they arrived in King’s Landing.

        Phoebe ever so wished to reach out and clasp Sibella’s arm in hers, to lean against her side lovingly, to kiss her cheek in the daylight when the sun shone through her beautiful golden hair. Phoebe watched as other couples strode by them, and her heart ached terribly. It hurt to see others display their love for all to see, when she could not. Not with Sibella anyhow. 

“I’ve received a letter from Aunt Eugenia,” Phoebe started. She didn’t know why though, seeing as the letter had contained nothing but the usual pleasantries, and the occasional dig that was customary of Lady Eugenia.

        “Oh?”

“She says it’s gotten quite oppressive weather wise in Lannisport. But other than that, she wrote of nothing but pleasant formalities.”

        “That woman is certainly something else,” remarked Sibella with a shake of her head, “However do you put up with her?”

“Well I don’t see her very much,” Phoebe twisted her hands, “It’s not as if she’d ever come to King’s Landing, she hates traveling, I doubt she’s ever been out of the Westerlands.”

          Sibella tutted under her breath. “I daresay that King’s Landing would not be ready for her if she dared to make her presence known to it at some point.”

          Phoebe granted her a small smile.

         “Has Lionel written?” she asked after a pause.

          Sibella puckered her lips.

         “He has. I haven’t read it yet.”

          Phoebe nodded. She expected as much. Sibella’s relationship with Lionel was strained at best. Phoebe was ever so glad that she was here with Monty and herself, and not with Lionel. 

         “You were quiet, after your presentation at court today,” Sibella mused, glancing at her with concern. Phoebe was more startled by the quick change of subject. Sibella was always good at that, changing the subject to whatever she deemed was worthy of discussing, especially if she didn’t want to talk about Lionel.

         “Not much to tell,” Phoebe said truthfully. 

         Sibella nodded and said nothing more of it.

         The silence allowed for Phoebe’s attention to turn towards the beautiful blue sky above them. It had been a long while since she had had the sun on her face. During the grim months that the D’ysquith family had been plagued with unfortunate circumstances, Phoebe had opted for the safer choice, and deemed it most appropriate to stay inside. The action tore her most viciously away from her beloved gardens, she had recently planted new flowers she had been most eager to watch grow. But her brother, Henry had insisted, for her own safety if for nothing else.

         For a time, the inside of her home had seemed like a prison, but then Monty had came along. Montague Navarro, a distant relative, who wanted nothing more than to be part of the family. Phoebe had welcomed him with open arms, for she believed it her duty to welcome anyone into her family no matter the scandal caused by the past. It did not help to mention that her attraction to Monty had grown tenfold as soon as his first visit had ended, and she found herself wishing to spend more time with him, if only for the benefit of the family, and of herself.

The fact that she had fallen in love with him, and he to her in return was simply divine. She often likened it to one of the romance stories she had read as a child. Most children her age, and status had read the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, but Phoebe had often snuck a smaller book of fairytales against the thick stack of her history texts. Her imagination had been free to wander, as long as her Septa didn’t look too closely, or come by to check her place on the page. Henry had often interceded with some off-hand question which threw off their Septa so that she’d have to pay attention to Henry instead of Phoebe.

        She missed him more than she could say. Her brother, so cruelly ripped away from her. Their parents had been long gone, and Henry was all she had had.

        Phoebe swallowed hard at the memory, tears stinging at her eyes. She found herself leaning into Sibella, not caring who saw. Her grip tightened for she was fearful that if she got any more emotional, she’d collapse.

        Sibella seemed to sense her emotions, for she was there quickly with a quick stroke of her finger under both of Phoebe’s eyes, a slight tutting on her lips, and soon Phoebe found themselves sitting on a carved bench. Her feet were glad of the reprieve.

        Biting her lip, she glanced at Sibella through watery eyes.

        Sibella looked crestfallen at her pain, and took one of Phoebe’s hands in her own.

“Darling, whatever has gotten you so upset?” Sibella tilted her head.

         Phoebe struggled to put words to her pain, to her anguish, to her sadness. These last few months, while they had been wonderful and exciting and full of love from Sibella and Monty, they had also come with the most horrid, wrenching sadness at losing almost everyone she had ever loved. True, she had not been close with her family, but family was family regardless.

        A half cry, half gasp escaped her lips, and soon she found herself buried in Sibella’s shoulder, sobbing. The rhythmic movement of Sibella’s fingers running through her hair provided a constant, a gentle reminder of her life now, that she was here in King’s Landing. But she couldn’t stop her pain, her tears, for it was all too great. She hadn’t had much time to reflect on it, with the arrangement taking off after Monty’s acquittal, her life now consumed with Monty and Sibella, by their love.

       Yet the grief came pouring out of her all the same.

       Perhaps it was because of Sansa. Yes, that must be it. Phoebe had immediately taken a liking to the girl from the start, seeing so much of herself in her. Phoebe had once been the same as she, dreaming of knights and love in the songs of old, of a prince sweeping her off of her feet, and yet her dreams had turned to ash in her mouth. Her life had not turned out as she had expected, yet she was still happy, but also unhappy as well. There was a thin line between unhappiness and happiness that stemmed from the sense of contentment. Somedays Phoebe felt content, fulfilled, whole. Others, she didn’t. It was a constant back and forth, and some days she feared that she’d never be able to be truly happy after all.

       Sibella’s slender fingers caressing her cheek halted her tears. She blinked, wiping at her eyes furiously, trying to steady her breath. Sibella said nothing, of that Phoebe was most grateful for.

      Phoebe’s dark eyes glanced at Sibella. She swallowed hard.

      “Shall we continue walking?” Sibella’s voice was soft, quiet, comforting. Phoebe closed her eyes, and tried to find peace in the simple moment.

       Upon opening them, and exhaling slowly, she nodded. Sibella helped her to rise, holding her hand tightly. As they continued down the path, Sibella held onto her arm firmly.

        Sibella kept up an idle chatter, to fill the looming silence. Immensely grateful of the fact that Sibella could single-handedly keep a conversation with herself, Phoebe stayed quiet. Her gaze stayed on the dirt, beaten path. She wondered how many noble families walked these halls, Houses who were extinct, and long gone. How they had walked the same path that she had this day, and how they had all ended up in the same place.

        Phoebe felt the sudden need to find a sept. Perhaps later. With Monty. Sibella seemed content to keep walking, and Phoebe didn’t feel like summoning up the energy to dissuade her from doing so.

        While Sibella chattered on, Phoebe found herself only half listening to what she was saying, something about a dress. Phoebe could tell that Sibella was merely doing this for appearance’s sake, that she knew that Phoebe was not listening, and that she was simply filling the air and the time with words.

         Sibella was rather good at that. Phoebe had wished that Sibella had come instead of her, that she should have been presented in front of Joffrey. Sibella had been raised to be within the ranks of nobility and had embraced such a role, while Phoebe had run from it and shunned it, and distanced herself in every way possible. Not that Phoebe wasn’t a good hostess, she could be, she had the training, but it was forced. It did not come as naturally as it seemed to do so with Sibella.

         Sometimes Phoebe envied her. In all of her glory. Her golden beautiful hair. Her effortless giggle. Her intoxicating smile. Her stern gaze turning loving and yet still ablazed with passion.

         Phoebe once remarked that Sibella must be the actual incarnation of The Maiden herself, and Sibella simply laughed.

         Sibella was everything that Phoebe was not.

         A misstep in her walking caused her thoughts to scatter as she stepped on a soft ball of yarn, nearly throwing her completely off balance. Luckily, Sibella was there to steady her. Phoebe glanced down at the object that had caused her to tumble, and picked it up gently.

         It was old yarn, of a yellowing golden color. Frayed edges. Rather dirty from the looks of it.

         Before Phoebe had the chance to say anything, a golden cat came pouncing by their feet, meowing eagerly at Phoebe’s ankles, reaching up to try and grab the yarn.

         She let it drop to the ground with a smile, and the cat caught it in its mouth, and gleefully began to tear at it, content at its own play.

         A boy came running after the cat, face flushed, blond curls bouncing.  He came to a skidding halt once he saw the cat, a look of relief on his face. Then his wide eyes turned to Phoebe and Sibella.

        “I’m sorry that Ser Pounce tried to scratch you, my lady,” the boy stammered, “He’s a good cat, really. He’s just… he… well, he doesn’t get out much. Septa Elaine let me roam the gardens with him today.”

         As if the blond hair wasn’t enough, the brocaded lions and stags stitched into his small tunic gave the boy’s name away.

“Prince Tommen,” Phoebe said, and both she and Sibella fell into a curtsey, “Ser Pounce was no trouble at all.”

         An older, much chagrin Septa came huffing towards them.

“Prince Tommen!” her voice shrill, causing the birds to scatter, “I will not have you go running off on me again!”

“But Ser Pounce ran off to get his ball of yarn! I needed to follow him. I threw it too far, it’s my fault!”

        “Regardless, your Mother has requested that you come in and get dressed for supper.”

         The boy frowned. “Is it beets again?”

“Yes, Prince Tommen. It is beets again.”

         His face scrunched up horribly and he knelt down to pet Ser Pounce, who purred affectionately at his touch.

“Then I shall not go. Beets are not for a prince, and when I’m King, I shall outlaw them for ever and ever.” He stuck up his nose, and threw the ball of yarn a few inches so that the cat had to go and retrieve it, bringing it back to Tommen.

“Prince Tommen,” the Septa’s voice verged on exasperation, “Your Mother is expecting you. We must not disappoint her. Come, say goodbye to these ladies.”

         Frowning, Prince Tommen reluctantly got up, not before petting Ser Pounce one more, and sending the ball of yarn back from where he had come from, watching him run off to chase it. He then faced Sibella and Phoebe.

“Thank you, for being so nice to Ser Pounce my ladies.”

“It was our pleasure, Your Grace,” Sibella said with a warm smile.

         Tommen blushed, a wry grin on his face as he looked at Sibella. His foot twisted as he stood there, obviously not wanting to leave.

“If you’d like to come by and pet Ser Pounce, you are most welcome, my ladies. May I have your names so I can address you properly next time we meet?” He looked up at them expectantly.

         Phoebe spoke first.

         “I am Lady Phoebe of House D’ysquith, Prince Tommen.”

         Tommen nodded seriously at her, and then looked to Sibella.

“And I am Lady Sibella of House Holland, Your Grace.”

           Tommen bowed to the both of them. Then with a nod of encouragement from his Septa, he took his leave of them.

           Sibella glanced at Phoebe as the boy and his Septa disappeared.

“Well, that’s not the first Lannister I expected to be formally introduced to in King’s Landing, but I’ll take what I can get. He was very sweet, don’t you think?”

         Phoebe shook her head at Sibella’s dramatics.

“He was very kind,” she said softly.

         “Although, Lionel won’t be pleased, I gathered if he knew that I hadn’t been presented at court yet, he would be irate. He’s rather keen on gaining the attention of the Lannisters,” Sibella remarked as they resumed their walking. 

          Phoebe glanced up at the sun, it was starting to set. 

          “I’m sure your summons will come soon enough, Sibella,” Phoebe said taking her arm. Sibella smiled, and interlocked her fingers with Phoebe’s. 

           Phoebe was surprised by that. By Sibella being so brazen at taking her hand after she had been one to worry about what would become of them in King’s Landing. It was a small gesture, and Phoebe knew she should resist it, but she was so grateful for Sibella’s company here that she couldn’t help but want to be close to her. After all, Monty seemed intent to think things over in their apartments, and so Sibella was her source of comfort. 

           Her thoughts strayed to the Queen Regent and her brother, how their relationship was cause for scandal but because Cersei had been Queen, no one had tried to destroy them. With her son on the throne, and his legitimacy being questioned, Phoebe realized that no one would dare ever challenge the thought again, lest they want to lose their tongue. Phoebe wished she had that sort of protection for her scandalous relationship with Monty and Sibella. She longed for that sense of security, in knowing that no harm could ever come to them and that they could be together in peace.

           But this was not Dorne. It was not Braavos, or Essos.

           This was King’s Landing, and they had to be careful.

           The other pairs that were walking amongst the gardens seem to stare at them, at their hands together, and fear opened up in Phoebe’s stomach. 

            Reluctantly, Phoebe let her fingers slip away from Sibella’s. To her credit, Sibella did not reach for her hand again, nor say a word. 

            They spent the rest of their walk back to the Red Keep in silence.

* * *

 

            That night Phoebe laid in bed next to Monty, her head clouded with a million thoughts.  Monty’s light kisses to her cheek and her neck elicited a small smile from her as her thoughts scattered like the wind. 

            She had been in the midst of braiding her hair when Monty had suddenly leaned over to her and started kissing her, so her fingers were still half threaded in her locks. 

           Her eyes met his, and she chuckled under her breath at seeing Monty look so happy. 

          “What?” he asked, a light smile on his face.

          She shook her head, letting her fingers fall from her half braided hair. 

          “You just look so content.”

           He smiled. “Well, I do believe that’s half due to the fact that King Joffrey did not hack my head off my shoulders today.”

           Phoebe ran a hand through Monty’s hair lightly. 

           “I’d say that’s good fortune for both of us,” she remarked.

           Monty grinned, cupping her cheek with his hand. His fingers lifted to brush against her lips gently. Phoebe’s eyes watched his fingers for a moment before bringing her gaze up to meet his.

           “I know that you had your reservations about coming here, my darling, but I could not have done this without you by my side,” Monty murmured softly, his index finger tracing her lips once more.

           Phoebe grinned, giggling slightly at his touch.

          “How was your walk with Sibella?” he inquired, bringing his fingers to run through her hair, “You were rather quiet when you came back.”

           Phoebe’s good mood soured. She thought of how Sibella had reached for her hand, in the middle of public, how she had wiped her tears, with no acknowledgment of the perilous situation that put her in. 

           “It was… fine. Sibella and I have not yet seen each other much since arriving, it was good to spent some time with her… although…” She trailed off, not sure how to put this to him.

           Monty frowned, “What is it?”

           Phoebe took a breath. 

          “Sibella was just… rather intimate with me, in public.”

           A laugh escaped Monty’s lips and Phoebe felt herself reddened upon realizing the implications of her words.

          “No, not in that way!” she chastised him, pushing on his chest with her hand in an annoyed demeanor, “I mean, she held my hand in public and dried me tears and showed tender affection towards me. It was all just… rather odd considering her stance that we should be careful of who we associate with, and with whom we are seen associating with. If anyone had found out, or had suspected…”

          Monty’s mood turned serious as Phoebe’s worry bled through her voice. He took her hand in his, kissing the back of it gently.

          “Oh, my love I’m sure Sibella did not mean to jeopardize us and our arrangement. King’s Landing has twisted all of our morals around on its head. A simple gesture such as holding your hand or drying your tears will not attract such attention.”

          Phoebe kept her disbelief of that to herself. She swallowed hard, struggling to find comfort in his words. 

          “I just… I couldn’t bear it if any of us got hurt because…”

           Monty’s gaze softened. He squeezed her hand lightly. 

          “I promise you, nothing will happen to us.”

          Phoebe took a breath, glancing at his eyes. 

          “Sibella is… Sibella,” Monty managed, “She’s going to do what she wants, and damn the consequences. But I’ll speak to her about this. You’re right and we should all be more careful from now on.”

          Phoebe leaned her head against his chest, finding comfort in his beating heart. Monty wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. Phoebe closed her eyes, the warmth from Monty’s body filling her with a sense of security.

          “You were wonderful today at court,” Monty murmured in her ear, “A perfect Lady of House D’ysquith.”

          “I was quite terrified,” admitted Phoebe, glancing up at him, lifting her head off from his chest.

          “I know,” Monty sighed, a hand coming up to brush against her cheek, “But you were wonderful nevertheless.”

           She gave him a small smile. Monty leaned forward then, pressing his lips to hers. It was a soft, light kiss, a comforting one, and it soon turned passionate. Monty’s hand gripped her cheek gently, while his other hand came to lay at her waist. Phoebe breathed slowly, enjoying the sensation. 

           As Monty’s wife, Phoebe had certainly engaged in intimate relations with him as of late, for Monty was a man of a healthy sexual appetite, and Phoebe felt it was only a natural occurrence for husband and wife to do so. Adding Sibella to the mix had been… difficult at first, but Phoebe soon came to love being intimate with Sibella, as much as she adored being intimate with Monty.

           Although personally Phoebe preferred non-intimate acts of affection, reading, walking through the gardens, and anything of the sort, she still indulged in sexual acts for her own pleasure of course, but also because she loved being able to please Sibella and Monty so. 

          The night before they had left for King’s Landing, Phoebe and Monty had spent a night of undeniable pleasure and bliss, deeming it a celebration for the journey that they were about to embark on. Since then, Phoebe had been simply too exhausted to indulge Monty, but tonight she felt differently. 

          Perhaps it was the fact that he was being so tender right now, so loving. His touch was light and affectionate, as if he knew that her heart was fearful right now, of everything that was happening in King’s Landing, and he wanted to provide her with comfort. Perhaps it was the fact that Sibella had spurred a desire in her for physical contact this afternoon, with the touch of her hand. 

          Regardless, Phoebe felt a warmth rise up within her, and she leaned into Monty’s touch, spreading her legs without thought as she moved closer to him. Monty’s hand fumbled with removing her small clothes, for she had tied them rather tightly. 

          She giggled at his attempt before she undid it herself, letting the fabric fall onto Monty’s waist before she moved it off the bed. His fingers pulled at the strings of her nightdress, exposing her breasts inch by inch. 

          In that moment, all she wanted was Monty, all she wanted was her husband. 

         She leaned in to kiss at his neck, her lips leaving a trail of light pecks. Monty’s hand left her waist to touch her inner thigh, feeling her wetness. Phoebe moaned against him, her body wanting, aching. Removing his smallclothes quickly, Monty entered her after a long, wanton kiss to the valley in between her breasts. Phoebe exhaled in pleasure again and again after they began to get into a rhythm. Once they were done, she laid next to him, his fingers in her hair. She kissed at his chest affectionately while he held her close. 

         If anyone had heard anything, they would only attribute it to normal relations between a husband and wife, for that was what Phoebe and Monty were. No one would suspect anything. No one would raise an eyebrow.

        Her thoughts only briefly thought of Sibella, of how she wished she could engage in similar relations with her here while in King’s Landing, but she knew that this could not be.

       So instead, she curled in closer to Monty, and fell asleep. 


	7. SIBELLA III

**Sibella:**

       Sibella found herself at her desk, tending to unanswered letters and such. Her parents had written a long letter detailing how proud of her they were, how they had heard that she was in King’s Landing. They asked why Lionel hadn’t accompanied her, the ever present question from them. In her reply, Sibella simply didn’t answer it, opting to ignore the situation entirely.

       Her eyes glanced at the letter from Lionel on her desk. She had only briefly read it the night before, having opened it in a moment of impulsiveness.

       It had been a mistake, for Lionel’s sour attitude had leaked through the pages, and Sibella had found herself in a most foul mood because of it.

       But she found herself drawn to it all the same. Even when she knew that the stack of other letters in front of her demanded her attention. Perhaps this was the effect of being gone so long, away from her marriage that she felt neglectful, for although her marriage was crumbling, she still felt some obligation to keep it going, keep up the façade.

       She unfolded the letter and reread the words Lionel had written. His handwriting was as steady and predictable as ever. Even the way he wrote bored her. Lionel had a habit of being utterly formal and practical in his letters that drove Sibella to madness. 

        For she and Monty had exchanged love letters in their youth that had been filled with the most elegant, beautiful descriptions, similes and metaphors that had made her heart burst with admiration. She still had some of them, hidden away in her trunk at home. Every once in a while, after bad quarrels with Lionel, she’d pull them out and read them, finding comfort in them.

       Her attention waned on Lionel’s letter, and yet she forced herself to focus, pinching her nails hard into the palm of her hand. She almost drew blood, the indents of her nails leaving marks. No doubt Monty or Phoebe would make mention of them later, but Sibella needed to focus. 

       There wasn’t much else to do here in King’s Landing. She’d been invited to another one of Margaery Tyrell’s garden parties, but she had declined. One of the lesser ladies had invited her to go hawking and Sibella had declined that as well. She was beginning to wonder what in the world was wrong with her. Perhaps it was the fact that King’s Landing was not as she thought it was going to be. She had expected elegant dances, a sense of youthfulness to the court, a liveliness and yet that had been replaced with an ever lingering sense of fear. It seemed to affect everyone in the court, and although Sibella hadn’t experienced it firsthand, thank the Seven, she still found herself wary.

        Although, from what she had heard last night, that hadn’t stopped Monty and Phoebe from engaging in sexual relations, no matter the mood at court.

        Her nails pinched hard at her skin, the letter! She had gotten lost in her thoughts again. She strained her eyes to focus, to pay attention, at least it was something to do.

“My dear wife,” Lionel had written, “I hope this letter finds you in good health and of good faith. The journey to King’s Landing must have been a tedious one. I expect your accommodations to be in good standing, as is expected with your status. I write to you to inquire of your health and of your journey, but also selfishly for I do wonder how you are getting on in making our most pivotal of alliances. I do not need to explain to you the importance of such a thing, surely you are aware of such matters. I only ask that, you my dear wife, bring good tidings to our House and name, for we surely need the support in this time of peace. Yours, Lionel.”

         It was short, but filled with unsaid things which made Sibella’s blood boil. He thought her incompetent, inexperienced at gaining alliances. The assumption made her crumple up the letter in her hands and threw it at the fading fire near her. She watched as it burned, her eyes intent, focused.

         She let out a long sigh as she located a blank page, taking her quill in her hands, and began to write a reply.

        “My dear husband,” she started monotonously, “My journey to King’s Landing has had no troubles as of late. Our ride was pleasant, especially in the company of Lord and Lady D’ysquith Navarro. As to your question of alliances, I am hoping to speak directly to the Queen. I assure you that I will find the means to prove fruition to such a plan. As for other possible allies, I have been in contact with the Tyrells, whom I know are not the best of Houses to seek support from, but it is support nonetheless-“

         She struck out that last sentence, reaching for a new piece of parchment and starting over. She threw the half written letter into the fire with Lionel’s. She found herself paused at that place, unable to continue. She didn’t know what to say to her husband, didn’t know what even to tell him and what not to tell him.

         She struggled not to laugh at the audacity of it all, for surely other marriages must work the same as hers, must operate with an air of hatred. With her chin in her hand, Sibella twirled the quill mindlessly until there was a knock at the door. Rising, Sibella was thankful for such a distraction, and was ever so more grateful when she found Phoebe at her door.

“Darling, do come in,” she said warmly.

         Phoebe gave her a small smile, making way to sit on the bed as there wasn’t much room in Sibella’s compartments.

“I’ve been thinking,” Phoebe started, wringing her hands, “about inviting Sansa to a luncheon.”

         Sibella kept her breath even.

         “Sansa Stark?”

“Yes.”

“Sansa Stark is no longer, my sweet. She is Sansa Lannister now, a married woman, I doubt she’ll have time for a luncheon. Besides, hasn’t the poor girl suffered enough, I’d think she’d want some peace and quiet.”

         Phoebe bit her lip, “But she and I have so much in common, so much we could help each other with, I think it would be beneficial for both of-“

“Until you get caught. And you will get caught, my love.”

         Sibella came to sit besides Phoebe, taking her hands.

“You have a loving, gentle heart, my sweet. Too loving and too soft for King’s Landing. If you’re not careful someone might tear that gentle heart right out of your chest. Stay away from Sansa Lannister, for all of our sakes.”

“But Sibella,” Phoebe protested.

“No, Phoebe, I won’t hear of it. We can’t. You know this. We can’t!” Sibella was exasperated. She hated having this fight with Phoebe over and over again. Why couldn’t she see how dangerous it was? Phoebe, who had been so nervous, so cautious was now willing through her own accord to associate with traitors?

         “I see,” Phoebe’s tone was acidic. She stood up, looking as if she couldn’t even stand to be near Sibella any longer, “So you only draw the line at associating with traitors that you deem troublesome enough, and yet you find no fault in parading our relationship out in the open?”

         Sibella’s eyes flashed. Her fingers trembled as if they themselves remembered the act that she had committed the other day, of holding Phoebe’s hand in the gardens.

         “That was different,” she found herself saying as she rose from the bed, even though she knew it wasn’t true.

          Phoebe lifted her chin to meet Sibella’s eyes. 

          “If anyone has been treading the line towards treachery it’s you, Sibella,” Phoebe pointed out, her voice low, trembling.

           Sibella recoiled as if she had been slapped by Phoebe’s words. In her heart, she could find no fault with them. It was true. For all of her words of being afraid of being caught, she had been the one to initiate contact with Phoebe, to take her hand, subtly exposing their relationship with no real care as to the consequences. 

          “No, no,” but her voice faltered against Phoebe’s stern, almost hateful gaze. Sibella swallowed her tears. Now was not the time.

          “You’re selfish, Sibella,” managed Phoebe, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re selfish and you’re cruel, and you only want me to stop associating with Sansa Stark because it threatens your happiness! You have no care for the girl’s feelings or my own!”

           Sibella took a step back at that, the words spinning around her head, Phoebe’s hateful, hateful expression burning into her memory.

           “How dare you think that?” she snapped, thinking of the time that she had comforted Phoebe, of how she cared for her immensely. For Phoebe to think nothing on that, it pained Sibella to her core.

           “You’re too invested in this girl, you’re not thinking clearly,” Sibella said out into the open when Phoebe had no reply for her inquiry. 

           “Sometimes I wonder whether or not you really love me, or if you just love the idea of me,” Phoebe’s murmur was like a dagger to Sibella’s heart. Sibella felt herself sink onto the bed, her knees giving out. Her hand grasped at the bedpost as if that would help steady her. 

           “Of course I love you, Phoebe,” Sibella whispered, meeting her eyes. But Phoebe looked down at the floor, her chest heaving. 

           “I don’t know if I believe you anymore…”

            Sibella’s face morphed into one of pure hurt, pure pain. Tears blurred her vision. She rose, reaching out a hand to try and grasp Phoebe’s, to reason with her.

           “Darling I-”

           “This is not just about Sansa Stark, Sibella, why can’t you see that?” Phoebe snapped, recoiling her hand out of Sibella’s reach. 

            Before Sibella could form a reply, Phoebe stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

            Sibella was left feeling horrid for herself. An empty pit seemed to swallow her whole, and she wished she could go and beg Phoebe for forgiveness, and yet Sibella’s stubbornness and her pride stopped her. And yet, seeing that look on Phoebe’s face, how crestfallen, how angry she had looked, Sibella yearned to run to her rooms and grovel until she died.

           She willed herself not to though. It ate away at her, the guilt, until she found herself crying and drifted off to sleep in the middle of the day.

           Her dreams were filled with torment, of Phoebe being beheaded, of Monty being imprisoned in the Black Cells, of she herself standing trial for the murder of King Joffrey. Eyes stared at her angrily, hatefully, as if they blamed her and her alone.

          She tried to open her mouth to speak, to defend herself, to tell the world that she didn’t do it. The boy’s murder had not been her fault, she had had no part in it, but Sibella found her mouth sewn shut. Her fingers frantically ran over the coarse material of the rope, of how they criss crossed, so that her lips could only part a little. She half wanted to rip them out, but she feared the pain. She feared the looks, the humiliation. She’d rather have her tongue cut out than have her lips sewn shut.

         The crowd grew louder, and louder, angrier and angrier. Someone called for her head. A life for a life, they screamed. A huddled mass of smallfolk, their faces dirty, their eyes hungry for bloodlust, their hands grabbing, shoving, pulling. Out of the corner of her eye, Sibella thought she saw Cersei standing in the corner, a small smirk on her face. Adorned in all black, Cersei looked like a revived corpse. Grief had diminished her appearance, had caused her face to fall in, her cheek bones becoming more prominent than ever before. Her hair’s bright color had dimmed. Her eyes, however, glinted with green as bright as wildfire.

         Sibella wanted to scream, to shout, to beg for mercy, and yet she couldn’t in fear of tearing her face apart.

          A black cladded headsman stalked towards her amidst the angry crowd. She trembled upon seeing him, her gaze following his every move. She wanted to run, but found her feet frozen on the spot. Her knees threatened to collapse, her fingers were shaking at her sides.

         Then, Cersei cleared her throat, effectively shushing the room. The smallfolks’ angry eyes turned towards her.

“For the murder of our beloved King, King Joffrey of House Baratheon, I hereby charge Lady Sibella of House Holland.”

         She paused, staring directly at Sibella.

          Sibella’s heart pounded in her chest, a few tears slid down her cheeks. Her breathing was ragged, horribly uneven. Sibella feared that she would faint dead away if something didn’t happen soon. Her heart prayed for a pardon. A royal decree of forgiveness.

          But the Lannisters were not a forgiving people, they never had been.

          Instead, Cersei Lannister looked at Sibella and simply smiled.

“The sentence… is death.”

          Before she knew it, the headsman grabbed her arm, pulling her towards a makeshift block in the middle of the Throne Room. Sibella kicked and clawed, but the man would not be moved. He roughly threw her down on the floor, her head landing near the block.

          Her vision swam before her, faces in front of her blurred together as one. Except one, except of Cersei Lannister’s.

          Those green eyes still stared at her until the flash of the headsman’s blade hit her neck.

          Then Sibella woke up with a start.


	8. MONTY III

**Monty:**

        Monty had been musing over the last couple of days in one of the chairs in the room when Phoebe had unexpectedly burst in. Tears and sobs echoed through the air, and Monty immediately got up to see what was the matter.

        He found Phoebe on the bed, her face buried into their soft pillows. Her shoulders shook with each sob. Monty quietly came to sit beside her, a hand stroking through her hair softly.

        “Darling, what has gotten you so upset?” he murmured.

         A slight sniffle filled the air. She turned to face him, her eyes red, her face tear stained.

         “Sibella and I had a fight.”

         Monty’s brow furrowed at that.

         “What were you two fighting about?” he inquired as he caressed her cheek.

         Phoebe swallowed.

        “Sansa Stark. I told Sibella that I wanted to invite her for sweets, that I thought I could help her seeing as she’s also lost so much of her family, that I could impart some wisdom on her, but Sibella thinks it’s too risky, too dangerous.”

         Monty pursed his lips. He hadn’t placed much thought of the subject of Sansa Stark as of late, seeing as his priorities had been about his girls and his girls alone. After the events at Highhurst, Monty’s top reason for being was both of them. Now that he had brought them into this place, he only felt that it was his duty to make sure that they were safe, and secure in King’s Landing. But he had sensed that Sansa Stark had been a dividing factor between Sibella and Phoebe.

         Ever since their encounter with her at the gardens, Monty had an odd feeling about the girl. Not to say that he suspected ill of her, she was a sweet thing nonetheless, but he could already see how Phoebe’s natural compassion, her loving nature would draw her to the Stark girl, whereas Sibella would purely stay out of it for the avoidance of a scandal. This was where his girls differed. He loved them both, for their different qualities, but he had not taken such a factor into account that a place like King’s Landing would bring this both out of them.

        He sighed as he looked down at Phoebe’s tear stained face, her red nose. He cupped her cheek gently, and Phoebe laid her hand over his, trembling slightly.

        Monty glanced at his wife, seeing how horribly sad she was. She sniffled and wiped at her nose as she tried to calm herself.

        “I only want to help her, the way you helped me when my family died,” she murmured, her voice breaking.

         Monty embraced her then, pulling her tightly against his chest, running his fingers through her hair. His heart ached at that. The way she clung to him, saw him as her protector, as her saviour when he had been nothing more than a murderer of her family. The truth swelled at his lips, wanting to break free, but he pushed it back down. He couldn’t. Not here, not when enemies surrounded them. Phoebe would run, would get away and who knows where she would be safe here. As long as she was with him, she would be safe. He would never hurt her, not his girls. Not her nor Sibella. Anyone else who stood in their way, yes, but never them. He’d rather die than kill his loves.

        “You are the sweetest, gentlest woman I have ever know, Phoebe D’ysquith,” he murmured into her ear. She smiled softly as she buried her head in his neck.

        “Sibella said that I have too soft of a heart, that someone might tear it from my chest if I’m not careful.”

         Monty’s grip on her body tightened. Of course, Sibella would say such things. He had half a mind to curse her for being so cruel, but then again, Sibella could be cruel and horrid when she wanted to be.

        “I would never let that happen,” he promised.

        Phoebe wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

       “There’s something else.” She paused, taking a shaky breath.

         “I told Sibella that sometimes I doubt her love for me.”

         Monty let out a long sigh. He had not expected that of his normally neutral tempered wife. Phoebe had always been the mediator between Sibella’s cold, and Monty’s hot.

        Tears bloomed in her eyes as she lifted her head to look at him.

        “I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, tear drops falling down her cheeks. “I was just so angry with her, for being so stubborn, so insistent, when she has been the one to tread the line towards treachery.”

        Monty pursed his lips, Phoebe was right about that. Sibella had been rather risky as of late. He had seen her reach for Phoebe’s hand during the wedding, and then again at the garden party. That small gesture spoke volumes to prying eyes.

       “She’ll forgive you, in time.” The words were empty though, because he knew Sibella’s temper.

        “Will she?” Phoebe’s eyes were imploring, tear-stained.

         He placed his lips against the top of her head and kissed it. He then moved to kiss her lips gently. She leaned into him, kissing him hard.

         “I promise. She will,” he whispered.

        “Phoebe bowed her head, glancing at the sheets. Her hands fell away from him, and started nervously toying with the fabric.

        “As for the other matter,” Monty started, “perhaps, one invitation for sweets won’t do us any harm.”

         Phoebe smiled softly, her face brightening. She kissed him joyously then, the color back in her cheeks. She giggled as she wrapped her arms around him, and Monty was glad to see her smile so.

        “Enough talk of this though, I say we go to the Throne Room and meet some other courtiers. After all, we’ve been quite isolated as of late, and I think the distraction would do us both some good,” he encouraged.

         Phoebe nodded in agreement after a moment, and soon they left.

* * *

 

        The Throne Room was more crowded than it had been the last time they had been received there. Many more Houses seemed to have gathered there, for Phoebe and Monty could barely squeeze past people. They had dressed in their finest, with Phoebe looking especially radiant in a gown of dark blue. Monty held her hand affectionately the entire time.

        They made small talk with some of the members of the minor Houses who had come to visit, most not being memorable to Monty. It seemed as though the Throne Room was just a mass gathering place for those who wished to gain esteem in the ranks of the court. Not that Monty wasn’t one of them, for he was. He had heard whispers that the Small Council had some openings and to prove his worth and devotion to House Baratheon and Lannister he thought it only appropriate that he at least try for the position. But it was mingling with those who had influence that Monty was having trouble. For there were so many nobles here, so many Houses, that Monty and Phoebe often got caught up chatting away. Well, more Phoebe.

       Monty’s eyes were always trained on the group of men near the King, his advisors who stood near him, the puppet masters pulling the strings of the boy king puppet. How he longed to be among them, to show his political prowess.

       True, his family had been poor growing up, his mother a discarded member of the D’ysquith family, marrying a Navarro man with little to no money. But Monty had done well for himself, far better than anyone had ever expected of him.

       Now, here he was. In King’s Landing, the Lord of a great castle. His Mother would have been so proud. Monty could see her smiling face looking at him, how he wished that she could see this. She would have been utterly delighted by Phoebe, the charming and gentle woman that she was, and she always had a soft spot for Sibella, that he and his Mother had shared in common.

       The room suddenly gave way to a silent hush as King Joffrey ascended the steps of the Iron Throne. He had nearly ran in, and he looked particularly gleeful, which was in Joffrey’s case, was never a good sign. Beside him, Cersei Lannister came in looking more smug than usual. Her smirk looked like it was about to crack open her face into an actual genuine smile.

      Monty felt Phoebe reach for his hand, and he squeezed hers tightly as he strained his neck to get a good look at their King.

      From up above, Joffrey actually smiled, and Monty felt a pit of fear open up in his stomach.

      This was not good.

      Something had happened.

      Something very, very bad.

      But, true to his loyalties, Monty kept a blank face as he listened to the King’s words.

       “Today is a great day for our Kingdom. Lord Walder Frey has delivered unto us a wolf’s head,” he smiled gleefully, “The King in the North is dead, and his bitch mother! Walder Frey has served the Realm faithfully by disposing us of these traitors, butchered at a wedding no less. I’ve asked for Robb Stark’s head as a consolation, so that everyone knows that in my Realm that treason does not go unpunished. We shall dine tonight, a celebration!” he declared.

       The room burst into a thunderous applause, but Monty and Phoebe did not clap. Monty glanced at Phoebe and saw that her face was as pale as a sheet. His grip on her hand loosened and then tightened as the implications, the repercussions of what Joffrey had just said rebounded in his ears. Now it was even more dangerous to be associating with Sansa Stark.

        But that was far from his mind, his only concern now was Phoebe, who looked like she was about to drop into a dead faint. He steadied her, a hand on her back.

        “Go back to our chambers, I’ll come for you as soon as court is dismissed,” he whispered in her ear, giving her a light push towards the hallway. Phoebe nodded, and didn’t dare look back, exiting the room quietly, for there was so much commotion, anyone barely noticed that she had left.

         Monty stayed in the crowd, more curious to see how the rest of this incident would play out. From out of the corner of his eye, he thought he spotted Tyrion Lannister. After all, how many Imps were there in King’s Landing?

         Tyrion looked as though he had already heard the news, which was unsurprisingly to Monty given the fact that he was a member of the Small Council, and Sansa Stark’s husband. He looked grave at the news. Certainly he knew as well as the rest of the Small Council if they had their wits about them that this spelled out danger. While it may have quelled the North for now, the repercussions of such an act would linger forever, for the Northerners always remembered.

        Monty found himself unconsciously walking towards Tyrion, who stood beside his sellsword friend. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, if Monty recalled from the vague introductions from the early days they had settled here.

       Soon Joffrey dismissed court with a gleeful wave of his hand, eager to make the preparations for this celebration.

       Tyrion scoffed under his breath.

        Monty took his chance then.

        “It’s a surprise to see you down here, and not with the King, Lord Tyrion.” Monty kept his voice low.

        Tyrion gave him a half smile, half grimace.

        “The King and I are on rather opposite sides at the present moment. I doubt he’d want me so close to him.” Tyrion then glanced at him critically, his mismatched eyes looking him over.

        “We haven’t met properly before, my Lord. I assume you are Lord Montague of Highhurst?”

         Monty nodded, “Indeed I am.”

        “I’m sorry I haven’t the chance to properly introduce myself, I’ve been rather busy as of late,” Tyrion said dryly.

        “Congratulations on your wedding, my lord.”

         Tyrion resisted a grimace. He glanced up at Joffrey who made his way out of the throne room.

        “Many thanks, my lord. Though I do believe that my wife does not think the marriage so agreeable.”

         Beside him, Ser Bronn glanced down at his feet, shuffling them a bit.

        “Yes, I am sorry to hear of her losses,” Monty said gently, “My wife has suffered much the same. Perhaps they could meet for sweets, when Lady Lannister is feeling up for it? I know Phoebe would be delighted for the company.”

        “I shall strive to relay your message to my wife if she’s feeling up for such an occasion.”

         Monty dropped his gaze.

       Tyrion bit his lip at the silence between them. The throne room was mostly empty now, the crowds having dispersed after Joffrey had left.

        “They’re calling it the Red Wedding. The bloody fucking Red Wedding. There will be songs about it I’m sure. Songs and hymns, and The North will never forget. I think my dear nephew has overlooked that bit, that the North, that my wife will never forget…”

         He glanced up at Monty, and gave him a half smile.

        “Forgive me, my lord. I’ve said too much. My mouth has a habit of opening on its own accord.”

         Monty laughed, “As does mine, you have nothing to worry about, my lord.”

         Tyrion considered him then. A slight pause.

        “We should discuss the Highhurst castle. I’ll have Pod send for you for a luncheon.”

         Monty bowed graciously. “I would be honored, my Lord.”

         Tyrion nodded, and he and his sellsword walked off together.

         Monty smiled to himself, he was fitting in just fine here in King’s Landing.


	9. PHOEBE III

**Phoebe:**

       It had all been too much for her.

       The events in the Throne Room, the gleeful proclamation of the murders, the way Joffrey had smiled, how the crowd had burst into applause at more death, so much death. Phoebe had felt disgusted, sickened, her whole world spun at the scene before her.

        She had been ever so grateful to Monty, her love, for allowing her leave, and helping to steady her. She had never ran so fast in her life as she bolted back to her chambers. Slamming the door, she collapsed on the bed in a heap. She buried her head in the pillows, clutching at them tightly with her hands, as if they would make her hurt lessen. Phoebe knew that wasn’t true, but she tried to believe it all the same. After all, it was the only sort of comfort she could bring herself in a time like this.

Right now, Phoebe wished that they had never come to King’s Landing. Their journey had started out pleasant enough, with excitement and a chance at a fresh start, but it had quickly turned into a living nightmare. Phoebe wasn’t sure if she was capable of surviving court life. She’d always had a delicate heart, one that went out to others who needed help, and it seems like she was being crushed under the weight of the capital. It was worse than home. It was all worse than home. She once thought Highhurst walls were her prison, but Phoebe now considered King’s Landing to be an even worse place to live.

Joffrey was horrid. A terrible monster who loved nothing more than torture. If her House hadn’t been loyal to him and his family, she wondered if her relatives would have met the same fate as the Starks. She shuddered on thinking so.

She curled her body inward, hugging the sheets as tears escaped from her eyes. Maybe it was because it was all too close to her own family’s murders, the timing was too much. Perhaps Phoebe would have done better if they had waited, but there was no chance of knowing that now. They were here, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Phoebe highly doubted they could leave now. Not when King Joffrey’s wedding was so soon, and he seemed particularly interested in them. Sibella wouldn’t want to leave, no matter what she said. Monty wouldn’t either. It was just Phoebe who wished to be away from this horrid place, to steal away to where she could be happy.

        Her heart felt heavy as she dried the last of her tears. She didn’t feel sad anymore, just an all consuming numbness. Perhaps this was grief. Phoebe had never really experienced it before, not in such a large amount. But having lost eight relatives, eight people who had been in her life one by one, had been so much trauma and turmoil.

        It had started with Lord Ezekiel, falling from that dreaded tower that he had been so proud to overlook. Then it had been Asquith D’ysquith Junior, in a horrid accident. Then it had been Lady Hyacinth, in a ship sinking, and then it was Lady Salome with the sword that had been accidentally plunged into her chest during her stage performance. So on and so forth, Phoebe lost them one by one. The one that had hurt the most was Henry.

He had always been an eccentric type, never one to care for the rules nor social conventions. He did as he pleased, and seemed happy. The accident with his beloved bees had been horrifying… tragic at best, Phoebe had been inconsolable. Her brother, her one true ally in this world had been taken from her. It had all been so horrible, Phoebe had cried herself to sleep for weeks. Her brother had been her protector, pseudo mother and father after their parents had died. He had cared for her more than anyone else had.

Tears stung at her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. It was no use crying over the dead, that she knew, but even still she found herself mourning for her family all over again. The days after the murders had been awful, with the incidents replaying themselves over and over in her head, wondering if she could have done anything to stop them. Monty had assured her no, that it was not her fault, that she shouldn’t obsess over it, but she couldn’t help it.

Now, poor Sansa was going through the same thing. Phoebe didn’t want to know the particulars, the specifics. She’d rather stay ignorant in that matter. Poor Sansa would have to hear it repeated over and over again, relive her family’s deaths every time someone mentioned their names.

         Phoebe sniffled, willing herself to stop thinking on Sansa Stark. She hugged the pillows closer to her face, closing her eyes, hoping that a moment of rest might help her regain her composure. She ran a hand down her cheeks, wiping up her tears. She took a breath, then another.

The door unhitched, and Phoebe glanced up at the sound.

         It was Sibella. Standing there in her pink dress meekly. Phoebe thought it was the first time she had ever seen the blonde so… unsure of herself, so careful. Usually Sibella was filled to the brim with confidence, with ease, with a playful and bold personality, but here… now she was hesitant.

        Her hair was in loose curls around her shoulders, shining as brightly as ever, golden as the sun. Her eyes were gentle, a deep luxurious blue that Phoebe wanted to drown in forever. Her lips were flushed, partly because Sibella had sunk her top teeth into her bottom lip. Her hands wrung together in front of her waist.

“I heard you running down the hall, I wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

         Sibella glanced at her, her eyes sincere.

         Phoebe bit her own lip.

“Monty and I went to the Throne Room. Joffrey had… King Joffrey,” she corrected herself, “he said that the Freys have murdered the Starks, Robb and Catelyn at a wedding…”

         Sibella’s face dropped. She went as white as a sheet.

“What?” she breathed, her expression turning shocked. She immediately crossed over to the bed, and sat down beside Phoebe, reaching for her hand.

“The Freys have murdered Robb and Catelyn Stark. Butchered them at a wedding.”

“But that… that goes against Guest rights and…” Sibella’s words were faltering, failing her. She seemed as horrified as Phoebe did.

“I couldn’t bear to listen anymore, so Monty told me to go and rest.”

         Sibella’s eyes focused on her. She tilted her head in that pretty way that she always did, and Phoebe’s heart melted.

“Oh, my darling,” Sibella whispered, clutching her hand, and caressing her cheek. The feeling of Sibella’s light fingers on her skin was enough of an apology for Phoebe and she allowed herself to bury her head into Sibella’s shoulder.

         Sibella wrapped her arms around Phoebe, holding her close. She hummed in her ear, and stroked her hair gently and soon Phoebe found herself crying once more. She hadn’t meant to, the tears just started to leak out. Once released, she couldn’t stop. Her shoulders shook terribly with loud, heart wrenching sobs, and Sibella didn’t once say a word, she only held her tightly.

“I hate it here,” she allowed herself to whisper into Sibella’s skin, knowing that her words were safe with her. Sibella would never betray her. Never. She couldn’t. Sibella was too devoted to her to do such a thing. She was too devoted to both of them, Phoebe knew this quite well.

“I know, my sweet, I know.”

         Sibella kissed the top of her head, and held her tighter.

“I want to go home,” Phoebe whimpered, and she curled herself into Sibella’s body.

“We can’t. Not yet, my love. Soon though.”

“I know you don’t want to go, neither does Monty,” she started while picking her head up to look at Sibella, “Perhaps I should just leave by myself.”

         Sibella’s face turned stern.

“No, my sweet. It’s far too dangerous,” she stated.

Phoebe relented, in her heart of hearts she knew that too. If anything, anything happened to her, Monty and Sibella would never forgive themselves. They’d be distraught.

        Phoebe laid in silence for a while in Sibella’s arms.

        “I’m sorry for what I said to you.” Sibella’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. “It was terribly cruel of me. Can you ever forgive me?”

         When Phoebe glanced up at her, she saw tears in Sibella’s eyes. She looked genuinely remorseful, her face full of sorrow, and of pain.

“I can be so cruel, and I never meant to- I could never hurt you my love, and the fact that I did is so monstrous of me and-“

         Phoebe grabbed her hands, effectively shushing her. Phoebe moved so that she was facing her directly. Sibella’s eyes glanced from her hands to Phoebe’s face.

“No, Sibella, you were right. You’re always right-“

“No, I’m not. I’m really not. I was so cruel and-“

“You’d fare far better as Monty’s Lady than I ever can,” Phoebe let the words escaped from her tongue. It had been something on her mind ever since the arrangement. After all, how could it not be? Monty loved Sibella as well as Phoebe, but it was to Sibella his devotion was. Phoebe couldn’t fault him for that, she felt the same way towards the woman. She’d do anything for her, she’d kill for her, die for her.

“Don’t say such things, my love. He chose you, he loves you,” Sibella stated.

“Only because you were already married.”

         That stopped Sibella right in her tracks. She fumbled at that, trying to come up with some lie, some excuse, but both of them knew it was no use.

“He does love you,” Sibella told her softly.

“Not as much as he loves you,” Phoebe admitted, tears in her eyes.

“Phoebe,” Sibella breathed, “Stop this nonsense. We both love you, we both want you.”

“You two are far better suited to be together in this place, I only fear that I ruin everything.” Phoebe felt her heart breaking for the words she spoke she believed to be true. She had seen them, watched them interact. They were all much better players at the game than she was.

“I won’t hear another word of this, Phoebe D’ysquith. You haven’t ruined a thing. Everything is perfectly fine,” Sibella comforted her, caressing her cheek softly.

         Phoebe’s eyes turned downcast.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, my love,” said Sibella as she kissed her lips softly. Phoebe found herself leaning into the kiss, wanting to be close to Sibella.

         “I’m sorry that I said I didn’t love you,” Phoebe murmured against Sibella’s lips. “I didn’t mean it. I was so angry.”

         “The fault is mine, darling,” Sibella cupped her cheek. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you.”

          “I love you,” Phoebe whispered gently, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Her hands entangled in Sibella’s hair and Phoebe pulled her closer.

          Gods, they hadn’t done this in so long. They hadn’t enjoyed each other’s company, each other’s touch in what seemed like forever. Sibella had been rather preoccupied with Lionel, and Phoebe had been tending to her gardens. Of course they had a few moments together, but nothing like they used to in the beginning of the arrangement. Sometimes, when Monty had been away in the marketplace, it had just been Sibella and Phoebe. They had spent hours in their room till the morning sun had turned to dusk. It had been glorious. Wonderful. Yet, there had been none of that as of late.

        Sibella glanced at her eyes, then her lips as she pulled away.

“I love you, so much,” expressed the blonde woman quietly.

        Phoebe couldn’t help but smile, but grin at those lovely words.

“I love you too,” she murmured back.

         A bright smile overtook Sibella’s face then, and the taller woman found herself giggling like a child. Phoebe found herself doing much the same, for it seemed like in this one moment, this one quiet moment that they were safe. That they could be together. That nothing would harm them within these walls.

Phoebe clasped her hand with Sibella’s as they faced each other on the bed. Her eyes roamed over Sibella’s body in an appreciative, loving sort of way. Gods, Sibella was like a statue, perfectly sculpted, like she had been carved out of marble. Phoebe loved to kiss every inch of her porcelain, pale skin, to see a faint blush rise to her cheeks, to have those delicate lips crashing into hers.

        Sometimes she wondered how she got so lucky to have Sibella’s love. 

        For Monty and Sibella’s love.

        Phoebe’s other hand, the one not clasped with Sibella’s, reached up to caress Sibella’s cheek. Her pale, delicate skin felt so smooth under Phoebe’s fingertips. 

        A warm desire rose up in Phoebe’s body and she found herself arching towards Sibella in need. Sibella was quick to respond, wrapping both of her arms around Phoebe’s neck. Phoebe’s lips moved to Sibella’s throat, feeling her pulse. The steady beat only made Phoebe want her more. Phoebe’s hand that was once on Sibella’s cheek had now traveled to the space in between Sibella’s breasts, though the fabric of her dress stopped Phoebe from caressing her bare skin. Her other hand gripped Sibella’s waist. 

       Sibella arched her head back, allowing Phoebe more access to her neck. Phoebe left delicate kisses down her skin until she reached the fabric of Sibella’s dress that covered her shoulder. Hasty fingers pulled at the sleeve, wanting to expose the soft skin underneath, but Sibella’s cool fingers came to clasp at her eager hand, as if to stop her. Phoebe glanced down at her, breathing heavily. 

      “We can’t,” her voice hoarse.

      “I want you,” Phoebe expressed wantonly. Her body felt hot all over. Suddenly the events in the Throne Room felt far away, King’s Landing felt like a dream. All that mattered was Sibella.

       Sibella’s eyes glanced at Phoebe’s, seeing the desire in them. Then she looked at Phoebe’s lips, her resolve dissolving with each passing second. 

       When Sibella’s lips crashed into hers, Phoebe knew that she had won her over. She was grateful of that, for she had missed Sibella’s touch, had missed Sibella’s kisses. They had been in King’s Landing for three weeks now and they had managed to not engage in intimacy until now. 

       “What about us treading with treason?” Sibella asked in between Phoebe pressing kisses to her lips feverishly.

       “I don’t care,” Phoebe whispered, and she meant it. It seemed that whatever they were to do, one could land with an accusation for treason. 

       “That seems most unlike you,” Sibella replied as Phoebe’s fingers undid the buttons on Sibella’s dress.

        “Maybe I’ve changed.”

         Sibella glanced up at her, a brief smile appearing on her face before Phoebe kissed those lips. Finally Phoebe finished undoing the buttons, and she pulled down on Sibella’s dress, slowly exposing Sibella’s skin. With each kiss to her bare skin, Sibella’s fingers clenched at Phoebe’s back, her exhales growing in volume. 

         When Phoebe’s lips reached Sibella’s inner thighs, the air was heavy with passion. Phoebe glanced up to see Sibella’s face fixed in the throes of ecstacy. Phoebe’s fingers toyed at her entrance, while her lips sucked at Sibella’s throat. 

        “You terrible minx,” breathed Sibella as Phoebe refused to give her what she wanted. “You horrible woman, how dare you keep me in suspense like this?”

        Phoebe kissed at her stomach, giggling slightly. Sibella moaned and arched her back in frustration. 

        Phoebe obliged after a few more moments of teasing, her fingers pressing into Sibella’s wetness again and again until Sibella nearly collapsed against the bed in a feverish daze of pleasure.

      “Do you love me?” Phoebe asked seriously, her lips at Sibella’s ear now. She laid next to Sibella, one hand in her hair, the other between her thighs. She half laid on top of Sibella, one leg intertwined with Sibella’s. 

      “Always,” Sibella swore, her voice firm. Her eyes shined with love.

       Sibella’s hand came to grasp at Phoebe’s. She kissed the back of it gently. Phoebe closed her eyes at the gesture, as Sibella’s lips left a trail of kisses from the back of her hand to her shoulder. 

       Sibella shifted her position, so she was half sitting up on the bed, and her legs came to brush against one another with Phoebe’s hand in the middle. Phoebe forgot about pleasuring Sibella, and her hand drifted from Sibella’s thigh to holding her waist tightly as Sibella quickly removed her own dress fully, and then shed Phoebe’s dress as well. 

      Suddenly finding herself on the bed, with Sibella leaning over her, Phoebe let out a long exhale of pleasure. Sibella held one of Phoebe’s hands in her own against the pillows, the other cupped at Phoebe’s bare breast. 

     “I love you,” Phoebe breathed. “I love you and only you.”

      At those words, Sibella indulged Phoebe, her fingers leaving her heaving breasts to press into her entrance. Phoebe’s breath hitched as a wave of pleasure seemed to overcome her. She stiffened against Sibella, and then relaxed into a dizzy haze of bliss. Her head rolled back against the pillows.

      For a moment she thought they were back at Highhurst, in her rooms. Not in King’s Landing where there were enemies around every corner. For a moment it was just her and Sibella. With Sibella pleasuring her, her fingers putting Phoebe on the brink, and nothing else mattered.

       The messiness of this afternoon fell away and for the first time here in the capital, Phoebe felt content. 


	10. SIBELLA IV

**Sibella** :

    She elected to go to another one of Margaery Tyrell’s garden parties, if nothing else for the gossip of the court. Since she still had not been presented yet, Sibella was anxious for any and all news. 

    The Blue Bard strummed on his instrument on the far end of the pavillion, and from where Sibella sat in the midst of the Tyrell ladies, Sibella glanced at him and caught his eye. He winked at her, which elicited a small, brief smile on Sibella’s face for she had missed being courted by men, like she had been in her youth, she missed their constant attention. Although the Blue Bard was a rather peculiar man, the attention felt good. There were never many bards back in Lannisport. Ever since Robert’s Rebellion, things in the Westerlands had quelled down, seeing as the Lannisters themselves were more focused on the capital. Once, in her youth, Sibella remembered seeing a bard at a feast at Casterly Rock. He had golden hair, with streaks of purple at the ends. He had played all of her favorite songs, and had complimented her on her dress. 

    This Blue Bard seemed joyful enough, like a good bard should be. The one she had seen at Casterly Rock had been cheerful, but then he had gone and sang a song about the Targaryens and his smile had been torn to pieces as his tongue had been cut out. It had been there, in that ballroom that Sibella had learned to be wary of what she said, who she spoke to, and to stay within one’s loyalties. 

    After all one only expected entertainment from those types, never intellectual conversation or gossip, or a political statement. She wondered, however, if like servants, that bards knew more that was going on than the actual courtiers. 

    She gathered that the servants at her own household knew exactly what was going on, but they all had the good sense to keep their mouths shut about it. She suspected similarly of the servants at Highhurst, that they knew fully well that Sibella was sleeping with Monty and Phoebe, that she was their mistress, but Monty kept servants of reputable discretion, whereas Sibella and Lionel did not. 

    The tune was of The Bear and The Maiden Fair, she had heard it countless times since arriving to King’s Landing. Between that, and The Rains of Castamere, that was all the bards seemed to know… or all of the songs that Joffrey approved of. 

     She hadn’t seen much of the boy king since the wedding of Tyrion and Sansa. She expected a summons any day now, but as each sun set and no word came, Sibella found herself frustrated. Her hopes of becoming close with the Lannisters were disappearing by the minute. And so, briefly, on a whim, today she had decided to join the Tyrells, if for nothing else than the fresh air. 

    She had half hoped that Phoebe would have joined her, but she understood that perhaps the events of yesterday had been too much for her. Phoebe claimed that she was tired and wanted to rest, and Sibella couldn’t object to that. 

    Sansa was not here either, and while she vehemently opposed becoming too friendly with the girl, she had hoped she would also be amongst the other ladies, if anything for another face to talk to. Sibella wasn’t fond of the Tyrell ladies, too chatty for her taste, too chatty and frivolous, but Sibella supposed that was what became of girls who grew up in the Reach. 

    Most of the girls talked about nothing in particular, dresses, suitors, that sort of nonsense. Sibella found herself staring into her cup of honeyed wine, the sweet taste lingering on her tongue from her last sip. She took a breath, gathering her thoughts.

    So much had happened in the past few days. Her fight with Phoebe, her horrid dream, sensual, intimate events with Phoebe that had happened late that afternoon. 

   She still hadn’t replied to Lionel’s letter. Making a mental note to herself, she vowed to at least attempt to write him something, for surely he must be working himself into a fit by now seeing as she had yet to be presented, nor had she made many political allies. The other day she had half entertained the thought of going to see Lord Varys, but had decided against it.

   Her days here in King’s Landing seemed to be filled with half-entertained thoughts, of things she should or shouldn’t do, but she never acted on them. 

   She took another sip of her wine, a heavy handed sip and shook those thoughts from her head, trying to focus on the conversation at hand.

   Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Olenna Tyrell staring at her hard.

   “Have you picked out a gown for the wedding, Lady Holland?” one of the girls inquired in a sugary voice.

    “In fact, I have,” she replied with a small smile, “I do believe I shall wear a gown of light pink that day.”

    “You’ll look so wonderful in it,” complimented the girl and Sibella found herself smiling. 

     For all of her talk about how airheaded these girls were, it reminded her of her youth, her childhood, the long distanced past when all she had to worry about were dresses and suitors. It made her heart ache slightly.

     “Have you heard, Lady Holland, about this dragon queen from across the sea?” Lady Olenna abruptly changed the subject, turning towards her, fanning herself with a dark green fan that matched her gown, embroidered with golden roses.

     “I have not, my Lady. Do indulge me in the tale.” she told the truth, taking a sip of her wine. The least of her concerns were of a dragon queen across the sea. Then again, Sibella had never been one to pay close attention to the politics of the world unless it concerned her and her well-being.

     “They say she hatched three dragon eggs, that this girl, Daenerys Targaryen is on her way to take back to the Iron Throne.”

     Sibella raised an eyebrow.

    “Daenerys? A Targaryen with dragons, that is certainly something to behold.”

    Olenna harrumphed, and Sibella suppressed a laugh.

     “If she makes it to Westeros…” pointed out Olenna. 

     Sibella found herself interested then, not in the threat of this girl, but in her itself, for surely a girl with dragons from across the sea must have something else to her worth mentioning to have her name whispered in the gardens of the Red Keep. 

    “What do people say she’s like?”

    Olenna pursed her lips.

    “Typical Targaryen. Fair-haired as the moon, purple eyes, a slight thing. She champions for justice, for slaves to be freed. She’s calling herself the Mother of Dragons, pff. As if that means she has a right to the Iron Throne.”

    Sibella bit back a comment. It was not her place to remind the Queen of Thorns that House Tyrell had once sided with House Targaryen during Robert’s Rebellion, that they had only bent the knee to Robert Baratheon after the losing and winning sides had been decided.

    Although, she supposed, a whole House’s loyalties did not reflect the individual.

   “Do you believe her to be a threat?” posed Sibella, taking another sip of her wine.

   “Not that far away, dear, surely not. But I believe that threats should be pulled out at the roots before they have the chance to grow,” Olenna said, glancing at her peculiarly, leaning forward.

   “I quite agree,” chimed in Sibella.

    “Of course, I don’t believe an outright slaughter is in order to be rid of your enemies,” Olenna leaned back, sipping her own wine, “A cruel hand never softens once it deals the first blow.”

     Sibella was quiet at that, glancing at Margaery who had now turned the conversation into something more pleasant.

     Sibella pondered over the marriage of Margaery to Joffrey. It was certainly an advantageous marriage, but she wondered what the end goal of the Tyrells were. Surely they didn’t expect this marriage to last. Joffrey was violent, unpredictable. While Margaery was good at manipulating him, that could only last for so long.  But a marriage of manipulation is bound to break at some point. Sibella gathered hers was on the verge of snapping, and yet Margaery and Joffrey’s time together had just begun.

     In a way, a small way, she felt sorry for the girl. Trapped into a marriage with a monster. Just like Sansa Stark.

    She had wondered what the motive was for the Tyrells befriending the Stark girl. Margaery and Sansa seemed so close, like sisters, like Phoebe and herself were if one took out the intimate nature of it all. Sibella had assumed it had been for political reasons, for Sansa Stark was the key to the North. But now, she wondered, though her first inkling still stood strong, that perhaps Margaery had sympathised with the girl, and Sansa in return, that they held a similar situation in life. 

    The Blue Bard began to strum the first notes of The Rains of Castamere and that brought Sibella back to the gardens. With a fresh breath of the air to her lungs, Sibella focused on Margaery, who sat across from her, next to her Grandmother at the head of the table.

“I trust your gown is in order?” Sibella ventured to ask.

    Margaery smiled, a genuine smile.

    “It is. The seamstresses are finishing up the minor details. I am very happy with the result.”

    Sibella smiled back at her.

    She had thought that that was the end of the pleasantries, but then Margaery looked at her once more. Her green gown brought out her delicate brown eyes.

    “What did you wear, Lady Holland, on your wedding day?”

    “Oh, dear… that seems like ages ago. It was a gown of white silk with gold stitching.” Absentmindedly, she twirled a stray curl around her finger. She didn’t like thinking on her wedding, for it had meant a temporary end to her relationship with Monty and that had been almost too much for Sibella to bear. 

    “That sounds lovely, I can imagine how beautiful you looked,” Margaery smiled, lifting her goblet to her lips to sip the cool wine.

    “Thank you, Lady Margaery,” replied Sibella, briefly thinking back on that day. She remembered how torn her heart had been, how she had felt sick with heartache throughout the ceremony, and it had only gotten worse once night came. 

    Biting her lip, Sibella took another sip of her wine as someone from the Kingsguard approached their table. 

    If she had been younger, Sibella was quite sure she would have known all of the names of the Kingsguard and what their sigils and Houses were. She would have been content to flirt with every single one of them, just to get a rise out of Monty. But now as a married woman, suddenly it wasn’t as important, and so the Kingsguard was just one of many to her.

    “Lady Margaery, the King requests that you meet with him in his chambers, he has a gift for you,” he said bowing stiffly to her. 

    Margaery smiled, glancing at her ladies who started to giggle around her in a childish way that made Sibella twitch in memory of how she used to act. 

   “Please tell the King I shall be there right away,” she told the Kingsguard.

    He left after a moment, and Margaery rose, as did her ladies. 

    Sibella got to her feet as well, even though Lady Olenna remained seated.

   “I should go see His Grace, thank you for the luncheon, my ladies.” She then glanced at Sibella, “Lady Holland, I hope to see you again soon.”

    Sibella curtseyed, “As do I, Lady Margaery. Your company is most welcome.”

    Margaery and her ladies, as well as the Blue Bard, soon left the pavillion, like a flock of hens following their leader. All around them, nobles curtseyed to her, and moved out of her way. Sibella watched carefully, realizing that Olenna was still sitting near her.

   “She’ll do well, I believe,” Olenna remarked, “Much better than the Stark girl.”

   Sibella bit down on her lip, raising an eyebrow.

   “I thought you liked the Stark Girl, Lady Olenna.”

   Olenna sat forward, a hand supporting her chin.

   “If you believe that, you’re not as smart as I believed you to be, Lady Holland.”

    Sibella swallowed hard, taking a moment. She then glanced towards Olenna. The other woman was staring at her curiously. Her gaze was blank, as if she was reading Sibella’s mind.

    “Do you love Lord and Lady D’ysquith?” The question came out of the blue, a small utterance in the silence of the gardens. Sibella felt as if someone had slammed a fist into her stomach. 

     “Of course not,” she lied quickly although her heart raced in her chest. Gods, if Olenna knew, then it was only a matter of time before others would find out.

      Lady Olenna simply laughed, and took another sip of her wine, “Ah yes, such things are unheard of in the capital, but not so much in Highgarden. We’re quite liberal with our sexalities and our attractions, you see.”

     Sibella’s face turned white, her top teeth nearly split her lip with pressure. She had no response, so Olenna continued.

     “There are all different kinds of love; familial, sensual, even love between friends. We all do what we can to protect those we love.”

     Her eyes flitted to the path that Margaery had just walked, Sibella’s eyes followed as she tried to gather her thoughts.

     “You’re sending her into the lion’s den, you do realize such a thing. All your talk of love and yet you knowingly send a rose into the lion’s home,” Sibella remarked quietly. 

     “Of course I do,” scoffed Olenna, “But the lion’s time is waning. Eventually they have to come out of their hole and face the world, and when they do, they shall find the ground thick with thorns and roses that shall pierce their feet until they can no longer walk. And the wolves will be waiting for them.” She paused, “After all, the North remembers.”

     Sibella glanced at her curiously. A question formed on her lips, but she never got to ask it, for Lady Olenna stood then. Getting to her feet, she gripped Sibella’s arm tightly, so hard that Sibella winced. 

      “Come walk with an old woman, Lady Holland. I believe it would do us both good.”

     Sibella swallowed, and simply nodded. She was not in a position to disobey. 

 


	11. SIBELLA V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're getting two Sibella chapters in a row because I hated the Monty chapter I wrote in between the two so have some Sibella!

**Sibella:**

 The Throne Room wasn’t nearly as crowded as Sibella had imagined it to be. In all of the times that she had pictured being at court, she always fantasized about being adored by a crowded flock of people from various Houses, all craning their necks to get a glimpse of her.

         The crowd here was dismal at best, but Sibella willed it not to deter her. She had dressed in her finest, but slightly risqué gown, but it was hot in the capital and a low cut gown relieved some of the stiff air from her breasts.

         Her hair had curled nicely, framing her face in loose golden waves, not unlike Cersei Lannister’s. As she walked towards the Iron Throne, she couldn’t help but notice that Cersei was standing beside her son on the landing, a small smirk on her face. To her left was Jaime Lannister, a hand on his sword pommel.

          It was strange seeing the Lannisters in power. For she had grown up in Lannisport with them ruling, but they had kept within the Red Keep. But now, here, she saw the whole entourage of them. Tywin, Cersei, Jaime, and even Tyrion with Sansa Stark at his side. The poor girl looked miserable, and Sibella found her head ducking to look at her feet instead of looking at the girl. She came to a stop in front of the steps leading up the Iron Throne, and glanced up.

           Gods, was it magnificent and horrifying at the same time. She’d heard stories about it, how the swords had been melted down, how Aegon had cut himself many a time on the edges. To see it in person was an experience in it of itself.

           She felt humbled by its sheer size, and intimidated too.

          “Lady Holland,” Joffrey called, the boy’s voice ringing out through the room. She caught sight of the blonde hair holding a golden crown secure on his head. 

          She curtseyed then, her eyes glancing at the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cersei stand up straighter.

          “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to make your introduction,” Sibella stated, looking up at him, a poised smile on her face.

           “And for I to make yours, Lady Holland,” he replied with a smirk.            “How are you enjoying your stay in the capital? I trust that it has been everything you expected?”

           “Everything I expected and more, Your Grace. It has been most excellent,” she gave him a dazzling smile.

            “I see that you’ve traveled here alone. Why did you make the journey here by yourself?”

            “I was not alone, Your Grace. I came here with Lord and Lady D’ysquith.” 

            “Not many women would dare come here unaccompanied by their husbands, not after the smallfolk’s riots.” Joffrey ran his hand on the edge of a pommel.

“I have the utmost confidence in your King’s guard and that you shall keep us safe, Your Grace.” It was complete flattery, but Sibella knew it had to be done, it had to be said in order to keep herself in good graces with the King.

            Joffrey, surprisingly, seemed to smile genuinely at that. Perhaps he liked being told how he was trusted, how he was admired. This was almost too easy. 

“We thank you for your trust, Lady Holland. I promise you that no harm shall befall you in this city while I am King, nor on anyone else in this court. The smallfolk do not run this city, I do. We’ve got to keep them down, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Holland?”

          The question being posed to her threw her for a loop, but Sibella recovered with a gentle smile.

          “Yes, Your Grace. As is your right.”

           Joffrey smiled smugly at that.

          “Perhaps you could instill some wisely woman advice to my wife before our wedding day, you’ve been married long enough.” He drawled, and then suddenly he sat up as if a thought just occurred to him. “You could also speak with my Lady Aunt, my Uncle Tyrion’s wife, for surely a woman such as you… performs her wifely duties to her husband.”

          An eyebrow raised.

          Sibella bit her tongue hard and then bowed her head. “Yes, of course Your Grace. As a wife, it is one’s duty to obey her husband.”

          Joffrey leaned forward then.

          “How is it that you are not pregnant yet, Lady Holland? I trust that such things do not take much time, if one is doing it correctly.”

           “Lord Holland and I have not been so blessed,” she gritted out through a tight smile. She tried not to remember the many times that Lionel had came to her bed in the hopes of conceiving, but it had all come to nothing. 

            “A pity. Perhaps your husband is not up to the task, he is rather old, isn’t he? You say the word, Lady Holland and I shall-“

            “I think that’s enough, Your Grace. We have much to attend to,” interrupted Tywin with a long glare at his grandson up on the throne. Sibella was grateful for his low, gravely voice echoing through the Throne Room, for it meant that hopefully this conversation would be over soon.

           Joffrey’s eyes snapped to meet his Grandfather’s. Malice gleamed in them.

          “I was merely inquiring about Lady Holland’s marriage. Surely as King, I am allowed to inquire about my subject’s wellbeing.”

           “Yes, their wellbeing, not the workings of their marriage bed,” challenged Lord Tywin, glancing at Joffrey with an intense gaze.

           Sibella held her breath, allowing the tense moment to fill the courtroom.

           Of all people, Cersei Lannister was the one to break the silence.

            “House Holland resides in the Westerlands, do they not, Lady Holland?”

            Sibella was startled by the Queen Regent’s sudden interest in her husband’s House, not to mention that this was in front of the whole court. 

           “Yes, Your Grace. House Holland is committed to-”

           “And what of your family’s house, House Hallward?”

            Cersei’s eyes glittered.

           “Your Grace?”

           Sibella wasn’t sure what Cersei wanted. She wasn’t sure why she had interrupted Joffrey, to switch the conversation so easily in front of all of these people to her family’s House. For her humiliation? If Joffrey could not tease her about the workings of her marriage bed, then why could Cersei tease her about her family and their ever-reaching grasp?

         “My family’s House also resides in the Westerlands, Your Grace.”

          Cersei pursed her lips.

         “And yet you came here with neither your husband’s house or your own…” Her tone dripped with suspicion, and Sibella’s stomach dropped, “Some might question where your loyalties lie, Lady Holland.”

         Joffrey sat up straighter at this, his eyes glancing over Sibella once more. 

         Sibella gulped. She wanted to look back and catch Phoebe or Monty’s gaze, but she knew that it would be too risky. She longed for Phoebe’s embrace, her hand intertwined in hers. Memories of the other afternoon flooded in her mind, as she remembered Phoebe’s fingers at her thigh, her voice murmuring her love over and over again.

         She thought of how Lady Olenna had guessed it all so quickly the other day in the garden, that surely if the Queen of Thorns could figure it out, the Queen Regent must have an inkling of some sorts.

       Or perhaps, Olenna had said something...

       To think that it could all be taken away right now, if Joffrey even suspected something.

       “Why is it that you came with House D’ysquith, Lady Sibella?” the boy king inquired, his eyes trained on her face.

        “Lord and Lady D’ysquith graciously extended an invitation to myself, to help Lady D’ysquith while she stays here in King’s Landing.”

        “House Holland has no business here, however… And why would Lady D’ysquith require your assistance?” Cersei’s tone was accusatory. Sibella had no lie on her tongue at the moment. Truth be told, she had not thought of one in response to such a question. She had foolishly believed that providing her statement would be enough, and that no further questioning would be involved.

       Her chest tightened. Surely they would all see through her now. Lionel would be written to, she would be sent home in disgrace, she’d never see Phoebe or Monty ever again.

       Just as her lips were beginning to part, Phoebe suddenly stepped forward.

       “I asked for Lady Holland’s assistance because of my condition, Your Grace.”

       Sibella whirled around at that, trying to mask the shock on her face, the betrayal brimming at her eyes. Condition. Phoebe had never mentioned a condition before. Not once. Not when Sibella had been in her arms the other day, not before they had left. No words had been spoken between them about any condition. For a moment, she feared that Phoebe was lying, trying to cover for her, but Phoebe’s eyes were sincere.

      “Your… condition, Lady D’ysquith?” Joffrey sounded bored, as if he had been expecting this. 

      Sibella held her breath, waiting. 

      Phoebe twisted her hands nervously, looking down at the floor and then back up at Joffrey.

       “I am with child, Your Grace. I have made no other announcement fearing that it might be too soon, but I required Lady Holland’s care, for she is quite skilled in such matters.”

      “Lady Holland has had no children herself, how can she be so skilled?” Joffrey leered.

      “In the ways of taking care of a woman with such a condition. I’d trust her with my life,” Phoebe nodded towards Sibella. 

      Sibella released a breath. A rising anger in her clouded her vision. She didn’t know what to think, what to feel, what to even do. 

      A child. 

     Monty’s child.

     Sibella’s jaw tensed. She saw Monty’s face turn blank, as if he did not know about this either. She tried to push down her feelings of betrayal, of hurt down, for right now, it was important that Joffrey buy the act. She could heatedly discuss this with Phoebe later. 

      She eased a smile onto her face instead of an angry grimace. 

      “Yes, Your Grace, it’s true. Although I have not been so blessed, I…

       Joffrey waved his hand, not wanting to bother with the details.

       “Congratulations are in order then, to you, Lord and Lady D’ysquith,” he nodded.

      Monty and Phoebe curtseyed. 

     “That shall be all for today, you are all dismissed,” Joffrey concluded, getting down from the Iron Throne, the rest of the court filing out after him. 

     Sibella caught Monty’s eye from the place where he stood next to Phoebe, and he clasped Phoebe’s arm tightly. Phoebe and Monty then started back to their chambers and it took everything in Sibella not to barrel after them at top speed, to walk besides them.

      Her thoughts raced. A child. Monty’s child. Phoebe was pregnant, and by the look on Monty’s face, this had been as much as surprise to him as it had been to her. A child. A child. Her breathing quickened as she made her way through the empty hallways back to their chambers, the walk seemingly taking forever, but Sibella was sure that was because of her nerves.

       The door to Monty and Phoebe’s rooms was only half shut, and Sibella threw it open without so much as a second thought as to who saw. She walked straight into the middle of an argument, Phoebe was perched on edge of the bed, her hands in her lap, and Monty was pacing by the window, his hands clutching at his hair. 

      Sibella at least, had the good sense to shut the door after arriving.

      “What in the Seven Hells is going on, Phoebe?” she managed to growl out after the door was shut. Her eyes swam with tears, because Gods, if Phoebe was pregnant, here, in King’s Landing, everything was different now. They would be in so much more danger, so much more peril. 

    Phoebe looked upset, her face pale, her lips trembling. 

      “I did not mean to spring such information upon you both like that, I had wanted to tell you in private, but I- I only realized it the only day and I hadn’t thought of how to tell you, both of you- and the way that Cersei was questioning you, I only wanted to help-”

      “It’s not a lie?” Sibella breathed, feeling all of the air in lungs deflate and leave her body. She felt as if she might faint, or collapse on the spot. Good Gods, Phoebe was pregnant, carrying Monty’s child, and she had said nothing.

      “And you didn’t think to tell me?” Monty’s tone was full of anger, of hurt. His voice was acidic, and Sibella could find no fault with his emotions. 

      “I only realized the other day, when I didn’t bleed.”

       “And yet you said nothing!” roared Monty, pinching his nose with his fingers, his gaze avoiding Phoebe’s face.

       “How could I tell you?” Phoebe snapped, “How could I, after your endless excitement over being here in King’s Landing? If I had told you, you would have wanted to go home, and I couldn’t bear to be the cause of your unhappiness.”

       “I care more about you than this damned city,” Monty spat.

        All of this shouting was causing Sibella to feel sick. She sank into a chair, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to regain her composure. Her fingers trembled as they clutched at the arms of the chair. A cool hand on top of her caused her eyes to open.

       Phoebe’s eyes stared at her face, glancing her over. 

       “Sibella I-” she started, her voice nearly breaking. Her hand squeezed Sibella’s lightly. 

       “You said nothing,” Sibella whispered. “Not a word. Not a suspicion. Nothing.”

       Phoebe ducked her head, sniffling. 

       “I know. That was my mistake.”

       Sibella felt violently ill, a clammy feeling overtaking her whole body. 

      “This changes everything now, you know that, don’t you? We can’t- 

       “I know.” Phoebe’s voice was quiet.

       Sibella released a breath, and then another slowly.

       Monty spoke before she parted her lips to say something.

       “Have you gone to a maester?”

       “I went to Pycelle yesterday,” Phoebe stated, glancing at him before returning her attention back to Sibella.

       Sibella crinkled her nose at the thought of Phoebe alone with that disgusting old man examining her.

       Monty looked as disgusted as Sibella.

       “We’re going home,” he uttered, pacing once more. “We have to.”

       “We can’t,” Sibella spoke up then, “It’s too dangerous now.”

      “Damn the danger, I won’t have either of you harmed, or worse.”

       Phoebe stood then, slowly rising to her feet. She crossed over to where Monty was now gripping a chair tightly with his fists. Sibella watched in silence. 

       “We both know that we have to stay here for the King’s wedding, otherwise he’ll see it as a slight against him,” she whispered quietly, placing one of her hands on top of his. Monty’s fingers twitched.

        “Just a few weeks, and then we’ll go back to Lannisport,” Phoebe continued, her other hand coming up to brush a few strands of hair back from his face. His expression softened just so at that. He leaned down to kiss her hand gently.

       “The day after the wedding is over, we will leave,” he swore. 

       They both looked over at Sibella, and she nodded, swallowing hard. 

        She wouldn’t dare put Phoebe in any more danger than she already had at this point, it was the least she could do.

        Sibella took a deep breath, in and out, for it was all she could force her body to do as her thoughts raced at the news she had just been given.

        Her eyes glanced towards Phoebe’s still flat stomach, but she tore them away after a minute, for it was too much. A dull ache began to fill her head and Sibella put a hand to her temple.

      Seven hells, what were they going to do?

 


	12. MONTY IV

**Monty:**

         He wasn’t so sure that this was such a good idea, but Monty could hardly refuse the young squire when he came to fetch Monty for his lunch with Lord Tyrion. The words had crossed his mind, of saying no and politely feigning a headache, especially since the recent news of Phoebe’s condition, but he found himself walking along the main corridor to Lord Tyrion’s rooms without saying a word.

         The squire stumbled along as if he was unsure of his footing, and kept quiet. Finding a man who would keep silent in a place like this was rare, and Monty wondered how on earth Lord Tyrion got a hold of a squire so loyal. He looked young, younger than Monty for sure. Pod was his name, if Monty remembered correctly. Podrick Payne. 

        His relative had been the one to remove Ned Stark’s head from his body if Monty remembered what he had been told.

        Pod moved ahead to open the door for Monty, allowing him into Tyrion’s chambers. Monty ducked his head as he entered, finding Lord Tyrion already to be sitting down at a table with a flagon of wine placed in front of him. He motioned for Monty to sit across from him.

        Monty’s eyes surveyed him, he was not drunk yet, and only half of the wine remained in his glass. His mismatched eyes glanced back at Monty, the scar prominent across his face. Monty hadn’t gotten a good look at him the other day at court, but now here in front of him, Monty got a true picture of who Tyrion Lannister was.

          Some claimed he was a monster, but Monty didn’t think all that. Disfigured yes, as a Dwarf was, but he was far from a gruesome creature. He was a human being, and a smart and intelligent one at that, anyone who simply took him for his size alone was making a grave mistake.

          Monty sat down, and Tyrion pushed a cup of wine at him.

         “Drink, Lord D’ysquith.”

         Monty wasted no time thinking on the command. He was in bad need of a drink, with the news that Phoebe had announced in front of the whole court. He raised the cup to his lips and took a large sip. Pod stood in the corner awkwardly, waiting for Tyrion to call on him if needed.

          “A Dornish red,” explained Tyrion, taking another sip. “Quite excellent if you ask me.”

           Monty nodded in agreement, “I find it quite enjoyable.” He took another sip. The liquid tasted rather refreshing after the ordeal he had been through. The harsh aftertaste was nothing more than a reminder to him that he was still in King’s Landing, still in the lion’s den, and that he should be on his guard. After his mind traveled to that conclusion, Monty pushed away his glass with his hand, and reached for the grapes instead.

          “I see that your friend, Lady Holland had quite the introduction at court the other day,” Tyrion remarked softly, his index finger tracing the edge of his own glass.

           “Yes, it was quite an eventful day,” Monty replied cordially. He wasn’t sure what Tyrion wanted out of this conversation. It was clear that he didn’t get along with Joffrey at all, but as to what Tyrion wanted to know about Monty’s loyalties towards the boy, Monty thought it was better to keep his guard up. After all, he was the King’s Uncle.

          “Tell me, you and your wife are close with her, are you not?”

           Monty pursed his lips. It was unavoidable, that question, seeing as they had brought Sibella along, and yet Monty was always irked whenever someone asked that question for he knew he would have to lie.

           “We are friends, nothing more, my lord.”

           “Friends can so easily turn to lovers,” Tyrion grinned, “I’ve had my fair share of lady friends who have turned into the most wonderful of lovers for an evening or two.”

           Monty’s hand gripped the armrest of his chair.

          “Lord Tyrion, what exactly are you getting at?” He shot the man a look. This was most unlike him. Monty had always been regaled that Tyrion Lannister was a man of eloquence, of diplomacy, and yet he seemed at ease with Monty here, far too comfortable.

            “I’m simply making conversation,” Tyrion put out his hands, as if that was a sufficient apology, “I am sorry if I have offended. You see, I don’t have much to do now that my father has taken over, and my wife is all but a ghost in my own chambers. I shall be more cordial from now on.”

          Monty reached for another sip of wine.

         “How is married life treating you?” Monty ventured to ask. From the previous statement, he guessed not well, but he felt compelled to ask.

          “My wife despises me, as she should. If I were in her position, I’d hate me too. She’s a child anyways, but I feel it is my duty to protect her.” Tyrion’s face relaxed for a moment. “And what about you, Lord D’ysquith, how is your married life treating you?”

          “Quite fine. Phoebe is wonderful, more than I ever could have hoped for,” Monty stated earnestly.

           Tyrion smiled, raising a glass.

           “Well, I’m glad at least one of us is enjoying their marriage. Seeing as your recent news, I can safely assume that it is being enjoyed to the absolute fullest.”

           Pod came to take away the now empty flagon of wine and replaced it with another.

         “How are things back in Lannisport?” Tyrion inquired, pouring himself another glass.

           Monty shrugged, “Fine as far as I know. Although I recently got into the business of estates, so my knowledge is limited.”

           “Casterly Rock still stands?” Tyrion smirked.

           “As mighty as ever, my lord,” replied Monty with a grin.

           “I should hope to go back there,” Tyrion mused, “but I do believe my place is here, besides my nephew and my sister and the whole lot of my family. Family is so important, don’t you agree?”

           Monty nodded, taking stock. He wished that his mother was here to see this, to see him so high up in the world.

          “Family is everything,” he replied, clinking their glasses together. Tyrion nodded his head solemnly after a moment.

           “Tell me about your family. Not the usual details, I know your sigil and your words, and all that nonsense. But what of the D’ysquith relatives? I daresay it was a shock to all of us in King’s Landing when all eight of them died off like flies.”

           “From what Phoebe has told me about them, they were an interesting bunch. When I came into the family, I didn’t have much time with them. If my wife is willing, I’m sure she’d be happy to speak with you about them.”

         Tyrion glanced at him.

          “And why weren’t you so well acquainted with them?”

          Monty took a breath.

         “I had recently discovered that I was family to them, on my mother’s side. My Mother was a D’ysquith but she never told me. A family friend came and we found letters addressed to them, claiming that I was their descendent, that she had ran away with my father. They, graciously, accepted me into their lives. I wish I had had more time with them.”

          It was a lie. A bold faced lie, but Monty was not about to spill his murderous secret to Tyrion Lannister right here and now. The part about his Mother was true, she had been a D’ysquith, outcasted by her father, raising Monty in the slums of Lannisport. How he had ever risen up to behold the likes of Sibella was a miracle from the Gods if there ever was one.

          “And you became Earl, just like that,” Tyrion snapped his fingers, looking at Monty amusedly. “How very lucky, Monty Navarro.”

           Monty bowed his head.

“It came at a terrible cost. My poor wife, she’s lost most of her family. She feels so alone, and I the only one comfort to her.” Monty paused, “I believe that’s why she’s been gravitating towards your wife, so that they may bond over their despair of losing their families.”

           “Your wife is kind, Lord D’ysquith,” Tyrion interjected, “but my lady wife has northern blood in her veins, ice running through her heart. She does not trust easily.”

          Monty nodded, understanding. He then chuckled lightly to himself.

         “My wife’s way of coping is to help others, the charitable soul that she is.”

          Tyrion smiled.

         “A soft heart, a woman needs one of those. She’s easier to love that way.”

          “So she can be mended into what a man wants?”

          “No.” Tyrion shook his head softly. “No.”

           He paused, his fingers dancing along the edge of his cup.

           “A soft heart grants a woman a sense of genuine affection, for she has not been hardened by the world. A soft hearted woman is not so easy to find in these parts, your Phoebe is a rare woman, you should treasure her.”

           “What about women with hard hearts?” Monty felt compelled to ask. In his hearts of hearts he knew this discussion was ridiculous. A mindless, idle chatter to fill the time, to fill the space, a wasted debate on philosophy and love, and yet Monty had never found such a person that he could discuss such things with so easily. A kindred spirit.

           His thoughts strayed to Sibella, and of her hard heart. How she so callously used him in their youth, how she loved him and yet she kept him distanced. She had gone and married Lionel in haste all because Monty was not of the right status for her. It hurt, but he did not blame her anymore. But her hard heart… surely he and Phoebe had softened it somewhat, had malleted it into a tender form that fit both of them, but Monty wasn’t so sure. 

            “They are harder to love, not just in the sense that they do not trust anyone, but in the sense that they know their heart can be shattered so easily with just a single touch. Anything can turn a heart to stone, it’s done so easily nowadays, and so many things can break a heart.”

           Tyrion sighed, leaving his words to the wind. Monty found he didn’t have a retort for that. His mind was wrapped up in his own thoughts, his own world, his two loves.

          “You love her, don’t you?” the man whispered across from him.

           Monty’s eyes snapped up from the table to meet Tyrion’s.

          “What?” he exclaimed, only as a reflex for being caught off guard.

           “Lady Holland, you love her too…”

           He didn’t wait for Monty to answer.

         “You and your wife. Both of you. It’s not hard to tell, the way you both look at her. I thought you both were going to storm up to the Iron Throne and throttle my nephew for the way he was questioning her.”

        Monty’s mouth slacked. So he knew. If Tyrion knew, who else knew?

          Tyrion seemed to anticipate this. He poured more wine into Monty’s glass.

         “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I only know because I’m an excellent observer and I have nothing better to do all day than to analyze others. Forgive me for being so bolden, it’s just… it’s not every day a man brings his wife and his mistress to King’s Landing.”

            “They-” but Monty had no time to finish his sentence before someone rapped at the door. Pod moved quickly, jerking it open to reveal the face of Lord Varys. 

             His reputation was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Spider.

            “Lord Tyrion, Lord Montague, I do apologize for the abrupt interruption, but we have news from across the Narrow Sea that I think might be paramount to the Crown’s interest.” He bowed lowly, and looked back up directly at Tyrion.

           His face, Monty observed, was unreadable. As blank as a piece of parchment.

           Monty stood. Tyrion did as well.

           “We must meet again, Lord D’ysquith, to discuss business once more,” Lord Tyrion stated.

           Monty nodded, bowing again to both Varys and Tyrion.

           “I look forward to such discussions, my lord.”

            With that, he departed, sneaking past Lord Varys, and watching the door shut as he left, forever within and without. So close and yet so far.

            His head hung in disappointment at not being asked to stay, but this was just the beginning. He couldn’t lose hope now, not when it was all he had left.


	13. PHOEBE IV

**Phoebe:**

     All morning she had felt sick, possibly due to her condition, but by the setting sun, Phoebe finally had enough strength to venture out into the gardens for some fresh air.

     Monty had left her to her own devices, having attended a luncheon with Tyrion Lannister that afternoon. Similarly, Sibella had been locked away in her chambers, claiming that she had various letters to be sorted and replied to.

     Phoebe D’ysquith was no fool, she knew that her recent news the other day had sent both Monty and Sibella into a panicked frenzy, from which neither of them ever really wanted to face the consequences of, at least not in the capital. 

     Before coming to King’s Landing, after the death of her family, after the wedding, Monty and herself had talked about children. Phoebe adored them and she wanted one of each, a girl and a boy. Monty hadn’t specified but simply the fact that he had wanted children was enough to put Phoebe into a blissful state of mind. They had spoke no further of it, not directly of course, after the arrangement had been made, for that time had been rather consumed with the blending of personalities between Sibella and Phoebe. She had, briefly, spoken of the subject before they received that fateful summons from Cersei Lannister, and now she wished that she had fallen pregnant and known about it just before their leaving.

    Perhaps they could have avoided this altogether. 

    But there was no time for regrets, not here, not in this place. 

     Even after all of her walks through the gardens, Phoebe did not find herself sick of them yet. In fact, they made her feel better. With the rosy aroma floating through the air, the waves crashing beneath the cliffs, the sun setting behind her, Phoebe breathed in deep, savoring the quiet moment. 

     A hand absentmindedly went to her stomach and she closed her eyes. She wondered if this child would grow up to be more like herself or Monty. A combination of both would surely be preferable, but sometimes children often took after one parent more than the other. Phoebe herself had been more like her Mother than her Father. Henry had been neither, instead he took after their long lost Uncle, according to their Mother. 

    Opening her eyes, the setting sun blinded her for a moment. She blinked away the harsh rays, turning her head and suddenly finding her attention drawn to the Godswood just a few feet below her. There had been whispers that Sansa Stark had retreated here, to the solitude of the Godswood after hearing about the murder of her family. Phoebe could hardly blame her. She had done a similar thing when her family had all died off.

    It was natural, she supposed, to seek comfort from the Gods after facing such a terrible tragedy.

    Having been raised in the Light of the Seven, Phoebe knew precious little of the Old Gods. She knew some things from the books she had read in her youth, but she had never delved into the topic further.

    Tree Gods, she believed. The great red Weirwood trees that had faces etched into them, as if the trees themselves were human.

    Phoebe had never seen one before. 

    As the sun set, a growing darkness covering the once bright garden, Phoebe walked to the Godswood, her steps light against the dirt and stone. 

     The face carved into the large oak tree stared solidly at her. The features were of neither male or female, but something in between, or not at all. It was most peculiar. She stared at it, considering all that she knew about the Old Gods. After all, the Seven had never done much for her, seeing that her family had been killed off while she had been so devoted to the New Gods. 

     Perhaps the Starks had the right of it after all.

      In the faint darkness, the face seemed to glow with an otherworldly appearance. Phoebe blamed it on the dimming light, for a brief moment she thought that the eyes staring back at her were red, as red as blood, and she jumped back in fright. 

     A chill took her then, and she wrapped her arms around herself. 

     She knelt down then, her skirt crumpling against the dirt and stone, but she could care less. Folding her hands, she lowered her head, and yet no prayer came to her mind, for Phoebe was not sure what to pray for.

      For a safe delivery of her child? That seemed obvious.

      For Monty, Sibella, and herself to escape the capital as quickly as possible? Of course, but Phoebe rather doubted that would happen now. Not when they seemed to be in the middle of the lion’s den.

      Those two concerns seemed to be the only thing weighing on her conscience. Everything else was trapped in the past, and she was unable to change it. Surely she would have liked to tell Monty and Sibella the news of her pregnancy under entirely different circumstances, but she had been so frightened, so frightened of Cersei Lannister’s gleam in her eye that she had spilled the truth without a second thought. Although it had done precious little to take the court’s eyes off of them, it had at least stopped the questioning about Sibella’s presence here.

      After all, Phoebe suspected people already knew. As long as they did not make a scene of it, hopefully nothing would be done.

      Her stomach churned, however, at the possibility that something would be done. 

      King Joffrey’s court seemed intent on devouring those with secrets, as long as it benefited those who turned them in. An endless wheel of Houses gaining favor, then losing said favor, and then gaining it again.

      Phoebe wished for nothing more than to be back in the simplicity of her beloved gardens back at Highhurst, away from it all. At least there, she could raise her child in peace. 

      The bushes behind her rustled in the darkness and Phoebe snapped her head up to look at who or what decided to stumble upon the Godswood at this hour. After all, most of the nobles here did not make use of it, only the Northerners. 

      Relief rushed through her upon seeing Sibella’s gentle eyes met hers, her delicate steps trying to maneuver around the particularly nasty spots of dirt, Gods forbid, she got any on her dress.

      “I thought I might find you here,” Sibella gave her a small smile. 

      Phoebe smiled back, a bit apprehensively. She was not sure where she stood with either Sibella or Monty, not after the other day when Sibella had all but shut herself in her room and Monty had remained somber and silent. 

      Of course both of them had pledged to keep her safe, not that she needed much of it, for it was Monty and Sibella who were both risking their necks by associating with the Lannisters, but nevertheless, Phoebe had not talked to either of them about the child since.

     Her mouth grew dry and she swallowed hard, glancing back at the oak tree, as if that would provide her with the words.

      “Have you been looking for me?”

      “It’s nearly time for supper. Monty was worried. He’s back at the Keep.”

      “Oh.” Phoebe did not know what else to say. Too many things bubbled at her lips, apologies, declarations of love, and other pretty phrases. 

       In that moment, she felt rooted to the spot. Going back to the Keep meant facing reality and Phoebe was not sure she was ready for that just now.

       Sibella seemed to sense her hesitation, for her lips puckered, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip before she let out a sigh, and gave a glance towards the moon that was beginning to show.

      Phoebe did not rise to her feet.

      To her utter surprise, Sibella reluctantly knelt down next to Phoebe after a moment, looking up at the large oak tree that was supposed to be a supplement to the real Weirwood tree.

      Phoebe looked at her incredulously. Sibella had never been one to put much stock into religion, and although she teased that she liked being told she was like the Maiden reincarnated, she never said much about the New Gods besides that. 

     “What are you doing?” the words slipped past her lips before Phoebe could reconsider her question.

     “I thought we could talk. Unless you’re not done praying, for then I shall wait.”

      Phoebe slowly unclasped her hands, still staring at Sibella.

      “Are you angry with me?” she asked Sibella quietly, for it was only the trees and the sea that could hear them.

      “No, I could never be angry with you.”

      “But, this- this child-”

      “Will be born at Highhurst, and shall be adored and loved by you and Monty and myself,” Sibella supplied quickly.

      “This doesn’t… change things?” Phoebe asked softly, her eyes glancing at Sibella’s face. 

       Something flickered in Sibella’s eyes, but it was too quick for Phoebe to guess what emotion it was.

       “No. No, my sweet. This does not change anything,” Sibella reassured her, reaching out and taking her hand.

       She kissed the back of it gently and Phoebe blushed with a childlike innocence, for surely such a display of affection between two women was blasphemous, even to the Old Gods. 

      “Sibella!” she chastised but did nothing to stop Sibella’s lips from moving from her hand to kissing her neck, and then finally her lips.

       Each kiss felt like forgiveness and it comforted Phoebe. It comforted her more than sitting by the tree, that was for sure. 

       Phoebe surmised that perhaps Sansa Stark only came here for the privacy and the quiet, rather than the actual guidance of the Gods.

       A gasp echoed through the air from Phoebe’s own lips as Sibella’s lips grazed over a tender spot of skin on her throat, and sent Phoebe into bliss. 

       She knew that they should be more careful, especially considering what had happened in the throne room a day early, but Phoebe rather enjoyed Sibella kissing her against the the stones of the Godswood, hidden by the bushes. It was clandestine, it was secretive, it was intensely romantic, and Phoebe did not know when she would get another chance to be close with Sibella for the foreseeable future, especially taking into account her own condition which would render her rather large and cranky in a few months time. 

      For now, Phoebe was content laying on the stones and the dirt, her dress already dirty from kneeling, with Sibella pressing kisses to her lips while one of her hands undid Phoebe’s braid, the other slipped up her skirt as if they were back in Highhurst.

     A crack of twigs and a slight shriek turned Phoebe’s skin cold. She sat up immediately, Sibella pulling her hands and lips away fast, but the damage was already done. 

    Behind a kneeling Sibella stood Sansa Stark.

    Terror froze Phoebe’s breath for a moment. 

    Sibella seemed as immobile as Phoebe did, but she suddenly sprung into action. She rose quickly and yanked the girl by the arm behind the tree.

   The reality of it all soon hit Phoebe.

    Sansa had seen.

    Sansa had seen more than she should have. 

    Upon that realization, Phoebe lowered herself back onto the ground in the fear that if she tried to stand she would surely faint.

     Her mind raced, trying to console herself on how at least it was only Sansa. Sweet Sansa Stark, whom she had been nothing but friendly to. Hopefully the girl did not turn sour on her and spill this secret.

    Phoebe tried to listen to the fevered whispering of Sibella but her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears, she only caught phrases here and there.

    Her stomach hurt and she closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. 

     When she opened them, there stood Sansa and Sibella. An odd pair indeed. The Stark girl was nearly as tall as Sibella even in her young age. Her red hair was slightly subdued in the moonlight, whereas Sibella’s golden one shone like the sun. Sibella’s gown was a dark pink in the dusk of the night, unlike Sansa’s dark purple gown, obviously meant for mourning.

    “She’ll speak nothing of what she saw here tonight. In return, we shall leave her be in peace to pray as she wishes.”

    Phoebe’s eyes glanced from Sansa to Sibella. Sansa certainly seemed like she wanted to forget the whole encounter, with the way she was avoiding Phoebe and Sibella’s eye. Sibella looked fiercely harsh, unrepentant of course, and yet her eyes softened once Phoebe rose to her feet. 

     “I- I did not expect anyone else to be here at this hour,” Sansa stated out of the blue. 

     Phoebe glanced at her, a hand running through her tangled hair. “I’ve never been to a Godswood before, only a Sept. I wondered what one would be like. Simple curiosity brought me here.”

      “This isn’t a real Godswood.” Sansa stated bitterly, glancing up at the tree. “Not like the ones we have at Winterfell. But, it shall have to do for I doubt I shall ever go home.”

      “Perhaps the Gods will look down favorably on you,” Phoebe said softly, a gentle smile on her face, for surely the girl had suffered enough, it was the least the Gods could do.

      “I don’t pray anymore. I only come here for the quiet. I doubt the Gods shall reward me for such a selfish effort.”

      Sansa then glanced at Sibella, curiously. 

     “Do you believe in the Gods, Lady Holland?”

     Sibella looked uncomfortable with the question. She shifted her feet, still trying to compose herself.

     “I don’t quite know. I’d like to,” she mused after a moment.

      Sansa nodded. She then glanced at them both, turning red, as red as her hair.

      “I-I won’t tell anyone of…. Your relationship. For surely if Joffrey finds out, or even the Queen… I- there has been far too much bloodshed here in King’s Landing, I do not want to see anymore deaths.”

     “Not even King Joffrey’s?”

      Phoebe glanced at Sibella, horrified that she would even dare say such a thing out loud. Sansa seemed to have the same reaction, for the poor girl fumbled over her words, but her face gave it away, those blue eyes betrayed her.

      “Of course not. I pray that the King has a long and healthy life, and that his marriage to Lady Margaery brings the Seven Kingdoms a long lasting peace.”

      “Not even if it meant he would stop torturing you?”

      Sansa ducked her head at Sibella’s questioning. Phoebe pulled on her sleeve, begging her to stop. Phoebe glanced back at the way to the Keep, as if she sensed eyes on them.

     “Sibella, please, if anyone hears-” admonished Phoebe.

      Sibella stayed silent, although there was something in her eyes that Phoebe did not recognize, that Phoebe could not clearly make out.

     “Lady Sansa, I am sorry for Lady Holland’s abrupt and rude questioning. We shall leave you in peace now.”

     Sansa gave them a curious look before she knelt down in front of the oak tree.

     Phoebe pulled on Sibella’s arm and soon they were walking back to the Keep. Even though they were far away from the Godswood, Phoebe could not help but feel that eyes were on her, those red eyes of the Godswood. 

     She feared that something bad was about to occur. But of what nature, she did not know. 

     Back in the Keep, safe in their chambers with Monty lightly kissing her cheek, Phoebe still could not shake the feeling of dread. 

     She went to bed, dreaming of those carved eyes gleaming red, crying blood until the tree turned a crimson red pillar of death.


	14. SIBELLA VI

**Sibella:**

“Lady Holland, Your Grace,” introduced the maid as she curtseyed and gave leave of the room, leaving Sibella alone with the Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms.

        The Queen was already sitting, a glass of wine in her hands. The sun was streaming in through the sheer curtains and it illuminated her golden hair that contrasted the deep red of her gown.

        Sibella swallowed hard upon entering the room.

        Those green eyes stared at Sibella, and she reminded Sibella in that moment of a lion covered in fresh crimson blood,  waiting to pounce. Sibella felt a sense of fear grip her heart. She had hardly believed the summons to be true when she had received it this morning, and now here she was. She let those thoughts float from her mind as she shook her head, and placed the most charming smile she could manage on her face and curtseyed deeply.

“Your Grace, I am ever so honored to be invited to your chambers to sup.”

         A light smile lifted Cersei’s face.

“Come sit, Lady Holland.” She gestured towards the chair beside her. Sibella kept her face calm as she came to sit next to her, smoothing her pink skirt with a hand. 

         Cersei Lannister’s voice was softer than she had imagined it ever being. It was quiet, subtle, dripping with sarcasm and disdain. But it was her eyes that showed her true affection and they raked over Sibella’s form with an intensity, a glare that Sibella found herself uncomfortable with.

        Sibella swallowed, reaching for her cup of honeyed wine.

“How have you been enjoying King’s Landing so far, Lady Holland?”

         Cersei’s question caught Sibella off guard. With the cup half raised to her lips, she found herself fumbling for words.

“Quite nice, Your Grace. It’s different than Lannisport, but I’m finding it quite enjoyable.”

        Cersei pursed her lips into a tight smile.

“I’d much rather prefer to be at Casterly Rock. Have you ever been, Lady Holland?”

“A few times, for celebrations and such, Your Grace.”

“When you return, you shall have to visit. Nothing in the Seven Kingdoms can rival its grandeur.”

         Sibella sipped on her drink then, taking a moment to reflect. 

         “Although in times like these, the capital serves quite nicely for such occasions as weddings. Have you met our fair Lady Margaery?”

         Cersei’s tone barely concealed the hint of mockery by the moniker and Sibella felt that she had to be careful in her answer.

         “I have, Your Grace. She and Lady Olenna invited myself, and Lord and Lady D’ysquith to a garden party.”

          “Ah, yes she is quite fond of those, isn’t she?” Cersei gave a slight laugh,  “I don’t comprehend how she can stand the smell from the stench of the city however. She must have a tolerance for it.”

          “She must, Your Grace.” Sibella’s voice was quiet. She took another sip of her wine, as if that would give her any courage.

          Cersei leaned in towards her, a hand crooked under her chin, her golden hair falling in front of her shoulders.

“I see that she’s been dragging the Stark girl everywhere. A highly unusual pair, don’t you think, Lady Holland?”

          A beat of silence went by while Sibella fumbled for an answer.

         “Yes, Your Grace.”

          Sibella bit her lip, not sure if that was the right one for Cersei took a large sip of wine and sat back, folding her hands into her lap.

          “The former cast aside bride of my son and the newly appointed one joining forces… as a mother it makes one wonder for my son’s safety.”

          “Perhaps they simply find comfort in each other’s presence. After all, women of our position must make the best of our circumstances.”

           Sibella tried not to think on what Olenna had hinted about in the garden. What she had said about the rose strangling the lion. She hoped that it did not show on her face, for surely Cersei Lannister would kill her right then and there for even saying such treasonous things. She thought back to what she had said the other night, in the Godswood, how she had asked Sansa Stark if she was willing to kill Joffrey. It was a dangerous game she had entered into now. Sibella wished she had never said a word to the girl, but curiosity had gotten the better of her, for surely out of everyone the Stark girl wanted him dead the most.

          “But that’s simply my speculation, Your Grace for I’m not well acquainted with either of them,” Sibella tried to shrug off Cersei’s suspicions.

          Cersei’s eyes glinted then, and Sibella felt a pit open up in her stomach. The wine turned to mud in her mouth as Cersei leaned closer towards her.

   _“But a friend of yours is.”_

         Cersei’s eyes were gleaming, as if she already knew, as if she was already ten steps ahead of Sibella in the game. Sibella felt inexperienced, a pawn, and yet there was really nothing she could do.

         She could feign innocence, ignorance too, and pretend like she had no idea what she was talking about, but likely Cersei would see through that. She had the intensity of a hawk glaring at its prey.  No, she couldn’t lie. But surely she couldn’t tell Cersei the extent of the truth.

         She swallowed.

“Lady D’ysquith?” Saying Phoebe’s name felt like a death sentence to her. She hated it, it tasted so wrong to say Phoebe’s name in front of Cersei Lannister.

        Cersei’s mouth widened into a tight smile.

“Exactly.”

         Sibella suddenly wished she had never come. She couldn’t put Phoebe in a position like this, not in harm’s way, not when she had told everyone that she was carrying Monty’s child. How could she put Phoebe in such danger?

“Ph-“ she stopped herself. Gods, how could she be so stupid!? She couldn’t allow herself to show any more affection for Phoebe than Cersei had already gathered. She couldn’t let her know. It would not only jeopardize herself, but the three of them.

        She took a breath and started again, sending Cersei her most polite smile.

“Your Grace, Lady D’ysquith is as ill acquainted with the Tyrells and Lady Sansa as I am. Seeing as we came together, she graciously let me accompany her, we have not spent much time with them.”

“But she shares sympathy for the Stark girl and her family, does she not?” Cersei tilted her head.

        Sibella bit her lip, trying to keep her face blank.

“As having so recently lost her own family, she understands the pain that Lady Sansa is going through, but that’s as far as the situation goes.”

         The flash in Cersei’s eyes told her that she didn’t buy that, but she didn’t press the subject further, of that Sibella was grateful for. Instead, Cersei leaned back, her stance relaxed. She seemed to have gotten what she had wanted, although her purpose and her intent was still slightly unknown to Sibella, even as she sat there next to the woman.

“And your husband?”

         Sibella’s mouth gaped. Lionel? Why ever would Cersei Lannister be bringing up her husband, other than because it was expected? Sibella guessed that even a Queen had formalities to stay in line with, but she had rather thought those had been broken by her basically insinuating that Phoebe was dancing dangerously close to treason.

“Lionel is back at Lannisport. He has a political career that he wishes to further along,” Sibella stated such as fact.  She did not want to talk about Lionel.

“And how is it so that he allowed you to leave, while he remained?”

“As I said, Lady D’ysquith allowed to accompany her.”

        Cersei took a sip of her wine.

“And your husband didn’t protest? Mine would have throttled me for being so defiant and ambitious.”

         Sibella paused.

“Lionel and I…. he was upset of course, but he understood that I would fare better in King’s Landing while he looked over his people back in Lannisport.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sibella said firmly while glancing at her.

“How very enterprising of you, Lady Holland,” Cersei complimented, taking another sip of her wine.

        Sibella beamed in spite of herself. She supposed it was very enterprising.

        Another beat of silence.

“Except, he has written to me…”

         Sibella’s face blanched.

“Who has?”

        Cersei’s lips lifted up to a smirk.

“Your husband, of course. He asked to receive a formal invitation to the wedding and I didn’t see cause to not allow it. Unless you would prefer him not to…”

         This was a trap. A carefully laid trap but one nonetheless. Sibella wondered if there actually was a letter.

         Cersei seemed to anticipate this, by producing a piece of parchment with Lionel’s handwriting on it, and handing it to her.

         Sibella’s eyes glanced over it. It was without a doubt Lionel’s. Damn him, damn him to everything. How dare he go behind her back and try and forge his own alliances? Granted, she hadn’t been doing much of that lately, but still, it was the principle that mattered.

         She handed the piece of parchment back to Cersei after a moment, hating the smug smile she saw upon her face. She wondered for a moment if this was how others saw herself? If other people thought Sibella just as cruel and manipulative as the woman before her? Monty had remarked more than once in her youth that she had been terribly cruel and horrid to everyone around her when it suited her. Perhaps she and Cersei weren’t so different after all.

          The thought terrified her to her core. Of course she had always kept her feelings guarded, or tried to at least through deflecting it onto others, she didn’t want to be cruel or ruthless.

“Did he say when he was arriving?” Sibella found herself asking.

         Cersei waved a hand.

“I don’t believe he did. It’s of little importance to me, you see.”

         Sibella’s mouth was dry, and Cersei decided to fill the silence with her own questioning.

“I can’t help but notice that you seem particularly close to Lord and Lady D’ysquith Navarro, how is it that a married woman is rather close to another married couple?”

         This. This was what she had wanted. To say it so nonchalantly and blasé. Sibella felt anger well up inside of her. What a fool she had been, to been so admiring of the Lannisters when it seemed like friend or foe alike they would use each to further only themselves.

“Lord D'ysquith Navarro and I were childhood friends. We grew up in Lannisport near one another, and we were close friends. I met his wife when they married.” Sibella had practiced such an answer so many times back home, to tell friends and family who had asked her about Monty, how she spent so much time with them. An explanation that hide the truth.

“Close friends? How close is close, Lady Holland?” Cersei stared at her intensely.

         It was apparently evident by the blush that crept its way onto Sibella’s pale cheeks. She had half a mind to say something about how close siblings could be, but decided that was overstepping the mark so she kept her mouth shut.

“And how is it that you can stand to be around him and his wife?”

“Monty and I’s relationship is nothing more than that of friends. We stopped courting long ago,” Sibella’s tone was firm.

         Cersei’s lips pursed but she dropped it.

         Sibella watched her watching her. It was the same look that many of the wives of the political alliances that they frequently had over for dinner back in the Westerlands. The look of obvious recognition of unhappiness in a marriage, that an affair was surely there but was hidden. It wasn’t that uncommon, but Sibella couldn’t risk it. Not here, not with Cersei Lannister.

         A knock at the door interrupted whenever Cersei was going to say next, Sibella was grateful for the intrusion. A maid appearing saying that Lord Varys was in, wanting to speak with her.

       Sibella didn’t wait to be asked to rise, knowing that her time had come to an end.

       Cersei stood as well.

“We shall have to meet again, my dear,” she sent Sibella a rather fake smile before she paused, “Do tell Lord and Lady D’ysquith Navarro that I shall have to pay them a visit as well.”

         Sibella nodded, giving a curtsey and then fleeing as soon as being told she could. She didn’t need a guard escorting her, it didn’t matter where she ended up, as long as she was far away from Cersei.

       Phoebe.

       She needed to get to Phoebe.

       Sibella could only pray to the Seven that she wouldn’t be too late.

 


	15. MONTY V

**Monty:**

 

         Monty looked up from his letters upon the sharp yank of the door opening. Sibella appeared, looking rather agitated and restless. A half smirk raised to his lips to scold her, to say he was right, that meeting Cersei Lannister was a bad idea, but the look on her face silenced him.

“Sibella, what’s wrong?” he asked, rising to grasp her, his arms at her elbows, holding her steady.

“Where’s Phoebe?”

“She’s out to luncheon with Sansa Stark,” he informed her.

         Sibella swore loudly, and it caught Monty off guard. Sibella rarely ever swore, for such cursed words never saw fit to pass through her mouth.         

         “Darling?”

         A look of stress took over her face then.

“I think Cersei suspects Phoebe.”

“Of what?” challenged Monty, “She can’t merely label her as treasonous by simply associating with the girl.”

“But she _can_ ,” pressed Sibella desperately, “and I’m afraid that she will.”

        Monty gripped her arms tighter. His gaze focused.

“What exactly did she say?”

“Not a lot was said outright, Monty, but it was implied. She insinuated that she suspects the Tyrells and Sansa of plotting against Joffrey, and that Phoebe might have a hand in it.”

“Phoebe wouldn’t hurt a fly,” scoffed Monty,” nevertheless kill a boy.”

“But Cersei doesn’t know that. Nor will she, if she has her mind set that she’s plotting with Sansa.”

“What does she have to fear from Sansa?”

“Her son’s life, for one. She doesn’t trust her, doesn’t trust the Tyrells either. Cersei Lannister is a woman who sees enemies around every corner, Monty!”

         Monty sighed and took a step back. This was not good. Not good at all. For someone like Cersei Lannister to have deep suspicions of Phoebe, of his wife, this did not bode well for them. Even though he and Sibella knew that Phoebe was a darling, a reincarnate of the Maiden or Mother herself, the Lannisters didn’t. All the Lannisters saw was a woman with sympathies to the Stark cause, and even worse, one of their own people, a House of the Westerlands.

         Gods, how could he had let her talk him into such an idea as a luncheon? She had pleaded with him that she should have a quick lunch with the girl, as solidarity, to try and help her for she was only a child. Monty couldn’t say no to her imploring eyes, but now he wished that he had.

“Monty,” Sibella’s voice brought him back to reality, as she gripped his collar tightly, feverishly, as if that might save them all. “Monty, I fear we’ve made alliances with the wrong Lannisters.”

        He thought on that for a moment. Gods, it was true. He had taken a keen interest in Tyrion, who was out of the three of the Lannister children, the one least liked, and Phoebe had taken a shine to newly wed Sansa Lannister, who was still underneath it all a Stark of Winterfell.

        Monty ran a hand over his face in frustration. His own ambition ruined him once more, except this time he may very well lose his head for it. Seven hells, his head hurt now. His body ached with regret and longing to be away from this place.

“Monty, there’s more…” Sibella’s voice was hesitant, as if she’d rather not say anything at all, but rather that she needed to.

         He glanced up at her, wondering how in the Seven hells this could get worse.

“Lionel’s coming,” she uttered in a whisper, her eyes fearful.

         He stiffened fully at that. Gods be damned, Lionel fucking Holland was coming too? Why not just invite the ghosts of the D’ysquith family as well? Have every damned person come to King’s Landing to heap misery and torture upon them!

“Seven fucking hells,” he swore so loudly that Sibella jumped. He winced as he saw her take a step back from him, reaching his hands out to her, inviting her back in. She did so willingly, letting her head rest of his chest as he tried to calm down.

“When?”

“For Joffrey’s wedding.”

“No exact date given?”

“No, he was annoyingly vague about that,” complained Sibella.

“I didn’t realize he had written to you again.”

         A pause.

“He hasn’t. It was to Cersei Lannister.”

        Those words sent a chill through Monty’s spine. Gods be damned. Her husband was the stupidest, bone headed moronic idiot to ever be put on the damned Realm!

“He did what?”

         Sibella glanced up at him, her eyes frightened. She bit her lip hard.

“He wrote to Cersei, asking her for an invitation so he could join me. He went over my head, the bloody bastard,” Sibella swore, her voice breaking.

         Monty held her tighter, closer. He feared that this would be one of the last times he would ever get to hold her here. Right here, in King’s Landing. For soon, when Lionel came, he would no doubt want her back in his bed, and it would be harder, trickier to have time alone with her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lovingly, his arms wrapping around her waist.

        She sighed into him, her head buried in his chest. He stroked her hair as he used to do in their youth when she would come to him, frustrated with the other boys who were so clearly after her, and all she had wanted was him. He was gladly there for support, with a touch, a kiss, an embrace. He always would be there for her. Even death could not part them.

        Lately he had been thinking on her marriage to Lionel. How it pained him to know that another man was touching her, making love to her in the hopes of producing a child. It made him shake with rage, for Sibella was his. She was always his. She had promised him in their youth, in a moment of pure vulnerability that she would always be his love, no matter what.

       “I could have him killed,” the words came out of his mouth in a quiet tone. A serious one. A tone that meant business, that he would actually do it if she commanded it.

       But Sibella merely scoffed it off.

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Monty.”

       He pulled away from her, glancing at her eyes.

“I mean it.”

“We’re already in enough trouble as it is, having Lionel end up dead in my bedroom would be one more problem we’d have to deal with,” she stated.

       Monty’s shoulders sank. She was right. Gods, she was always right, in her own smug way. He sighed heavily, leaning his forehead against hers. Sibella closed her eyes at the gesture, and he tenderly kissed her eyelids. A soft smile appeared on her face.

“Say the word, and I’ll do it,” he promised. With her eyes still closed, she took one of his hands in hers.

“It’s too dangerous, my love. We can’t.”

         She opened them after a moment, and Monty couldn’t help but kiss her. Sibella’s eyes went wide at the kiss, unexpected at best, but Monty couldn’t stop. His lips pressed hard against hers, biting on her bottom lip while simultaneously sliding his tongue between her teeth. His hands gripped at her waist. Sibella all but melted against him, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck quickly. He wanted to take her then, right then and there, in the midst of all of this danger. His mind should be occupied with Phoebe, and how to protect her, and it was… for a bit. But his stress level was high, far too high, and Sibella’s lips were begging to be kissed. In the blur of hands touching, lips kissing, Monty found himself backing Sibella up against the wall. Her back thudded against the wall but that only seemed to stem Sibella’s lust for him. She yanked on his clothes while she kissed him, her hands tugging, pulling. Her fingers longed to touch his skin, as his did for hers. Buttons were loosened quickly, clothes were shed until they were both left in their smallclothes.

         Monty felt courageous then, in a manner that he hadn’t felt in a long time, since coming to King’s Landing. He reached out and pinned Sibella’s hands up above her head against the wall. Sibella didn’t struggle, she merely smirked and arched her body up to rub against his playfully. Monty felt like he was about to burst then, and he shed the last of his smallclothes and then he lifted Sibella’s skirt up to her waist. Her bare legs stood exposed, her porcelain skin untouched. Monty’s lips kissed at her throat, sucked at her collarbone before kissing in the valley of her breasts, and then he dropped to his knees, and kissed the absolute inner part of her thigh, dangerously close to her entrance. Sibella gasped, buckling for a release. Her hands, which were no longer pinned, came to grab fistfuls of his hair tightly.

“Oh Monty,” she breathed, her eyes closed, her breath uneven. Her legs shook and Monty grinned at causing her to become so faint. He kissed again at her other inner thigh, eliciting the same response.

“Monty?” her voice begged. “Monty, please?”

         He obliged her then, his mouth coming to taste her, and Sibella folded against him in ecstacy. Once he was finished, he rose and kissed her lips again, with her shaking beneath him. He held her hand tenderly, and then entered her at last.

         They fell into their usual rhythm then, their pattern of breaths, gasps, sighs, and touches. It had become almost routine now, but they both enjoyed it nonetheless.

         When they were finally spent, he leaned into her and she him. Both breathless, both shaking. Monty couldn’t tell if it was out of fear or out of love-making, but he felt a mix of both.

       In the silence, she clung to him. She kept her face nuzzled against his. Monty held her as well, wanting to never let her go. Her words rebounded in his head.

       Lionel was coming.

       Lionel.

       All of this would be gone, threatened, even more so than it already was. Sibella would be ripped away from him, thrown to the mercy of Lionel Holland. Sibella had told him more than once that Lionel wanted a child. An heir to further progress his line. Sibella had uttered that she’d rather die than give him an heir, for Sibella did not love him and no child borne from their union could ever make her happy, no matter how lovely the child. If the child’s father was anyone but Monty Sibella would be aloof, a distant mother. She’d hate every minute of it.

        Her voice broke through his thoughts.

“We should go find Phoebe,” she whispered against his skin.

         Monty closed his eyes. Seven hells. What were they doing? Having been overcome by passion, Monty had disregarded the safety of his own wife and unborn child. His darling Phoebe. Not that he loved one more than the other, but Phoebe was his wife, his loyalty was to her.

         He pulled away from Sibella then, and Sibella staggered just a bit. She found her smallclothes without speaking, as did Monty. The air was filled with a sense of regret. Not of the act, they had done it countless times before, but because they had put themselves above Phoebe’s safety.

        Sibella didn’t have to say a word, but Monty knew that she felt the same bitter, deep regret that he did. It was in the downcast look in her eyes.

“I’ll go look for her,” Monty’s own voice surprised him.

         Sibella glanced at him from the bed, a hand in her hair, untangling it softly.

“That’s probably for the best,” she said after a moment.

         Monty nodded, not knowing what else to say. He pulled on his own clothes at the same time as she did. He glanced at the door, and then at her. Sibella looked forlorn in that moment, contemplative.

         Monty wanted to say something, parted his lips to speak. But no words passed from his lips. Instead, Monty silently went to the door and left to go find Phoebe.


	16. PHOEBE V

**Phoebe:**

The redheaded girl in front of her had barely touched any of her food. Phoebe had even specifically asked for lemon cakes, for she knew they were the girl’s favorite, and still they sat there untouched and pristine.

         Phoebe looked at her guest carefully as she sat across from the young woman. Sansa hadn’t said much besides the pleasantries at the beginning, and even those had been strained. Phoebe had wanted to start a conversation, but the girl seemed to be content with silence. The sun shone down on them in the gardens, and the low chatter of couples and other courtiers walking by filled the air, providing some sort of noise. The servants had gone away, Phoebe had given them leave until they had finished.

         Sansa prodded her food with her fork for a bit, her gaze intent on her plate.

“Lady Sansa,” Phoebe started after a moment, “Won’t you at least try and eat something?”

          The girl looked up at her, and the expression of her face was haunted. Phoebe felt a shiver go up her spine as she looked at her. She looked so weary, so tired, so grief stricken.

“No thank you, Lady D’ysquith I’m not hungry,” the girl stated in a hushed tone. Her lips barely opened as she uttered the statement. She looked down at her hands after a moment, her expression far away.

“Lady Sansa,” Phoebe pressed softly. “Please.”

Sansa averted her gaze, swallowing hard. Phoebe’s heart went out to the poor girl.

With a breath, Phoebe decided to speak, to tell her tale in order to perhaps help the girl.

“My family recently had a string of deaths happen in quite quick succession, my lady. I lost my Aunts and Uncles alike, far too many, and I lost my brother, Henry. He was the nearest and dearest person to me. I was inconsolable for weeks after he died. But luckily I had my husband to help me through such an ordeal…” Phoebe glanced at the girl. She hadn’t reacted so far, her face blank, filled with grief. Phoebe continued, “I’m only telling you this because I want to help you through this, Lady Sansa. I know of your pain, to lose your family.”

“You know nothing of my pain, Lady D’ysquith,” snapped Sansa, her eyes ablaze with anger. Phoebe was taken back, but she pursed her lips, willing herself to try and understand.

“How so?”

         Sansa stiffened. She hadn’t been expecting to elaborate. Tears welled up in her already puffy eyes.  Phoebe was quiet while she waited for her to answer.

“You’re married to a man you actually love, whereas I am a traitor’s daughter married to the worst Lannister of them all, bound to the family that is bent on slaughtering mine. I am nothing more than a puppet to them, they don’t care for me, they only want my claim. I have to stand by and watch my family be murdered and then sleep in the same room with a man who has a Lannister name. I’m quite literally sleeping with the enemy, and all the while I have no friends here in King’s Landing, no one at all who truly cares for me.”

         Phoebe reached over the table, to take one of the girl’s shaking hands in her own. Sansa seemed startled by the contact, but she didn’t yank her hand away.

          Sansa’s shoulder shook as she tried to stifle her tears, but she could no longer hold them back whatsoever. The tears leaked down her cheeks, falling onto the nice silverware and the lemon cakes. Phoebe wanted to go over and comfort her, as a mother would a child, but she felt like that was a step too far, and they were already getting some looks from random people passing by. Holding her hand was enough.

“They’re calling it the Red Wedding,” whispered Sansa tearfully. “It’s horrid. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. Everything turns to ash in my mouth, and I’m plagued with nightmares.”

“Perhaps a sleeping aid might help?” interjected Phoebe softly.

“Tyri-Lord Tyrion has suggested such a thing, but I doubt it would do any good.”

“Still, you could try,” urged Phoebe.

          Sansa took a breath, trying to calm herself. She pulled her hand away from Phoebe’s grasp slowly, blinking away her tears.

         “That’s why I go to the Godswood, to try and get some peace. If I cannot sleep, I figure that the silence is better than nothing.”

          Phoebe swallowed hard, remembering how Sansa had walked in on a rather intimate moment between herself and Sibella. Her cheeks flushed at the mention of it.

         “Lady Sansa, I would very much like to help you in this matter. Please allow me that,” she begged.

“I- thank you for this invitation for sweets, Lady D’ysquith, but I fear I must go back to my chambers. I’m feeling quite unwell,” the girl stated suddenly.

“Sansa, please know that you have a friend, a true friend, in myself and my husband, and Lady Holland for that matter,” Phoebe insisted, reaching for her hand again, but Sansa stood quickly.

         Phoebe followed, rising to her feet, her hands wringing together.

          Sansa glanced at her, and then at the ground.

“I fear I must reject your proposal of friendship, for you see, I have no real friends here, in King’s Landing. There is no one left I can call a friend,” she whispered, and without another word she took her leave.

         Phoebe wished to follow her, but didn’t. She needed her space, as Phoebe had needed when Henry had died.

         Phoebe watched her leave, becoming a distant shadow in the garden. She then sat down back in her seat, folding her skirts and sitting in the silence.

          Talking of death, of her family’s murders had not been easy on Phoebe’s mind. Dredging up the painful memories of losing Henry, and her beloved Aunts and Uncles. Phoebe felt so alone in this strange place. Much more so than she had before. Even though Sansa was going through a similar, horrible ordeal, it still wasn’t the same. Nothing could ever compare to how she’d wake up every day to the news of one of her relatives dying, the horrid feeling of death that overcame Highhurst. A few tears fell from her eyes as she found herself thinking on the horrid affair.

          She was ever so grateful when she saw Monty coming up the pathway, looking rather contemplative.

“Phoebe, darling!” he called out to her, and once he was at her side, he knelt and took her hand.

         She wiped at her eyes carefully.

“Monty, I thought you were sorting your letters,” she said, putting her hand on top of his.

“Something has happened,” Monty said gravely.

          Phoebe’s heart landed in her stomach. Her mouth went dry.

“Sibella?” her voice was high and nervous.

“She’s fine, but we need to talk in private,” Monty insisted. He kissed her hand.

          He stood, still holding her hand, and she followed him back to their chambers in a rush. The silence between them was disturbing, Phoebe hated it. She glanced at Monty, wishing he would tell her what had happened.

          As soon as the door shut, Phoebe went to the bed while Monty sat in the armchair, his head in his hands.

“Monty, whatever is the matter?”

“Sibella supped with the Queen. It seems that Cersei Lannister is highly suspicious of you, because of your affiliation with Sansa Stark.”

          Phoebe let out a sigh. She half expected this.

“And? What is she planning to do with me? I’ve simply had sweets with the girl, I’m not trying to smuggle her out of King’s Landing, I’m merely aiding her as a shoulder to cry on seeing as she has none.”

“This situation is precarious, Phoebe!” Monty ran his hands through his hair.

          Phoebe was quiet after his outburst.

“There is another thing,” Monty murmured bitterly, as if he himself did not want to acknowledge whatever it was that he was about to tell her.

          She glanced up at him. He looked full of regret and anger. It was in that moment she noticed that Sibella was nowhere to be found. The absence of her spoke volumes, for Phoebe would have liked to have her on her side.

“What is it?”

          Monty bit at his knuckles.

“Lionel is coming.”

          Phoebe’s face slacked. Her jaw fell open. Out of all of the things to expect, she hadn’t been anticipating that.

“What?” she was dumbstruck.  “Here? He’s coming here?”

“Lionel has received an invitation to Joffrey’s wedding, he’s coming here.”

“Does Sibella-“

“Yes. Cersei was the one who told her. He wrote to the Queen Regent and asked if he could join Sibella here.”

          Phoebe went rigid at that. Gods, Lionel was annoying enough from afar, but to have him here, right under their nose with Sibella around would be horrible. It would be catastrophic.

“Is she in her room?”

          Monty nodded softly, not looking at her. Phoebe felt some odd emotion radiating off of him, some sort of secret he was withholding from her. She wished he would tell her what it was, but right now her focus was on Sibella.

“I’m going to go see her,” she announced, and Monty made no attempt to come with her or say anything against it. She found it strange, but she would press it at a later time. Monty seemed upset, and in his own thoughts, better to leave him to his own head.

         Phoebe knocked on Sibella’s door loudly. After a few moments, Sibella opened the door, already dressed in her nightgown.

          She had the same, odd expression on her face that Monty had. Phoebe bit her lip while entering the room. She wanted to ask what it was, if it had been brought on by the announcement of Lionel coming here, but instead she opted to remain silent. Phoebe sat on the edge of the bed, while Sibella perched herself in her chair by her mirror. Her hand lay across the handle of her brush.

“I heard about Lionel,” Phoebe started, but she soon stopped when she realized that she did not know how to continue the conversation. She paused, and reflected in the silence.

          Meeting Sansa for lemoncakes today had been a mistake, and yet Phoebe did not regret it. She couldn’t bring herself to find such horrid fault in asking a poor girl to eat with her, especially one who had had their family ripped away from them so cruelly. She would not back down from that, not even if Cersei Lannister or Joffrey ripped out her tongue for it. She did regret, however, the implications that such an act brought upon her loved ones, how Sibella and Monty seemed so on edge, so tense lately. That was her fault. She knew.

“I don’t know when he’s to come,” Sibella said softly, a hand in her hair.

“This shall all come to an end when he does, won’t it?” Phoebe’s voice mimicked her heart breaking at the thought. Gods she loved Sibella, more than her faith itself, just as much as she loved Monty. She hated the thought of her living so close to them and not being able to be with them, forever bound to another man’s embrace. Phoebe had often wondered too, if here in the capital, that Sibella might tire of her, and find another female to take engage in pleasurable activities with. The thought of another woman kissing Sibella, touching her, made Phoebe as mad as ever, almost as mad as it made her to think on Lionel doing such things.

“It was foolish to even attempt to try and get away,” Sibella murmured quietly, her fingers running over the handle of her brush.

“No, no my darling, it wasn’t foolish,” Phoebe reassured her.

         Sibella scoffed, “How was it not? I shouldn’t have even tried,” she stood then, slamming the hairbrush down so hard that it simply snapped in two. A trickle of blood appeared across her fingers and palm, the cut not too deep.

         Phoebe jumped at the sight of blood, rushing towards her. She cupped Sibella’s hand, inspecting the wound while Sibella tutted that she was fussing for nothing.

         She grabbed some spare clean cloth from the medicinal bag she always had packed, she had stowed a spare one amongst Sibella’s things, and it seemed to have been for good reason. First she rinsed out the cut with water from the basin in the latrine and Sibella only winced slightly at that.

“You’re lucky it didn’t hit your eye,” Phoebe remarked, glancing at how the shards of the sharp metal had only flown into Sibella’s hand, and not flown into her face altogether.

“Yes, quite fortunate,” gritted out Sibella as Phoebe wrapped her hand tightly.

“There, that should do it.”

          Sibella held out her hand, turning it over this way and that, until she deemed it satisfactory. Still, Sibella remained as quiet as ever.

          Phoebe put away the medicinal kit, and then glanced over at her.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Phoebe took a hazardous leap with that statement.

“Everything seems to be falling to pieces,” Sibella answered quickly. She turned towards the bed and sat down on the far edge of it. Phoebe followed, if only to make sure she was alright. Sibella sat anxiously, her hands twisting in her lap. Her eyes flickered as if she was replaying something in her head, but as to what Phoebe could not guess. Phoebe reached out a hand and touched her shoulder lightly.

“Everything will be fine, my love.”

          Sibella looked at her, suddenly her eyes were filled with tears. Thrown off by this, Phoebe inched closer to her, not knowing what caused such a reaction to occur.

“Darling, what is it?” Phoebe pressed.

“It’s all of it,” Sibella whispered. “Everything. It’s all so much, so dangerous, and we walked right into it, walked right into the lion’s den and now we’re trapped.”

“We’re not trapped, Sibella. Monty would never let us-“

“Monty has no control over Cersei Lannister!”

          Sibella’s snap echoed off of the walls. Phoebe’s hand dropped from her shoulder. She felt small, and wished to curl inwards towards herself.

“I’m sorry, Phoebe,” Sibella expressed after a moment. She closed her eyes, and then opened them, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “I- I – I’m so frightened. Cersei- she seemed so intent on blaming you, on finding fault, on associating treason that I just- I… and then with Lionel…”

          Phoebe cupped her chin.

“Sibella, listen to me. Sibella, look at me. It’s alright. Everything is alright.”

          The words were lies. Half truths at best. But it was all Phoebe could offer her right now, for she did not know the future, she couldn’t.

          Sibella’s frightened eyes glanced at her, her hands fumbled for Phoebe’s. Her grip was pinching, but Phoebe didn’t mind.

“I fear that we shall all meet our end here if we do not leave soon enough,” Sibella whispered, her voice trembling.

          Phoebe pulled her close, Sibella buried her head in her chest, shaking so.

“Sibella you must sleep, you’ve had a horrid ordeal today,” she advised.

“I can’t,” replied Sibella, muffled. “I can’t sleep.”

          Phoebe stroked her hair gently. “What if I stayed here with you? I’ll stay all night until you get some sleep.”

         Sibella looked up at her, her bottom lip quivering.

“But-“

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

“But Monty, he- you should- he’s your husband-“

“And you are my love as well,” Phoebe replied, caressing her cheek, wiping away Sibella’s tears. “I love you, my Sibella.”

          Something flickered across Sibella’s face then, an unrecognized emotion of sorts.

“You’re so good, Phoebe,” she whimpered, “So very, very good.”

          Phoebe smiled softly. She kissed Sibella’s golden crown.  Then she nestled herself beneath Sibella’s soft silk sheets, and flipped over the covers for Sibella to come in. She did so, inching herself as close to Phoebe as she could, so that their noses were close together.

          Phoebe kissed her lips gently, a hand on her cheek as she did so. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could offer her right now, all she could give her Sibella. Still, there was something that Sibella was not saying, something that she was not admitting to, but Phoebe had no idea as to what it was. She harbored a guess, seeing as both Monty and Sibella had looked guilty upon seeing her, but to say it out loud would mean conflict, trouble in paradise and they already had enough of that with her own news of the baby. But that was another thought for another time. Phoebe shook the feelings from her head with a toss of her hair, and gave Sibella a small smile to ease her pain.

        Without a word, Phoebe held her close, her fingers running through Sibella’s golden locks carefully. She closed her eyes, relishing in the peace, knowing that it could not last, that soon all would crumble around them. But for now, she cherished the quiet tender moment with Sibella.


	17. PHOEBE VI

**Phoebe:**

             The gardens were as lively as ever despite the climate turning slightly chilly. Phoebe felt a cool breeze float through the air and the sensation was welcomed against her skin. She was not one for the festering humid climate of the capital, of the summer sun, and she quite enjoyed the breeze now and again. The array of flowers nestled amongst the hedges brought her comfort, a sense of ease. How she longed to sink her face into their soft petals and breathe deeply as she had done so countless times in her own gardens at Highhurst. But to do so was improper, so she resisted the urge.

           She counted her steps as she walked.

           One, two, three, four. A pause to look at the long stemmed flowers. Back to walking.

            Five, six, seven-

            A cat jumped across her path, and a light smile appeared on her face as she knew that Ser Pounce’s owner would be along shortly, running after his beloved pet. She hadn’t seen him since their last encounter, which seemed like years and years ago, when in reality it had only been a week or so. Truth be told, she had quite enjoyed the young Prince’s company. He seemed sweet, sweeter than Joffrey, although that wasn’t a high bar to begin with.

            Still, the boy reminded her of Henry. In his simple, compassionate nature. In his bright eyes, his lively personality. It warmed her heart to find someone that resembled Henry in these parts, a friendly face amongst the lions and the wolves.

            True, Tommen was the Prince, a Lannister and a Baratheon at that, but the poor boy was just that… a boy. No matter his House, she could not fault him for that.

            So when he came bounding in after Ser Pounce, Phoebe smiled politely, dipping into a curtsey.

            A flash of recognition came over his rather chubby features as his face broke out into a smile.

           “Lady D’ysquith!”

           She smiled, biting back a bout of laughter at his obvious enthusiasm.

          “Prince Tommen, I am so honored that you recalled me from before.”

            Tommen blushed. It was obvious he did not get a lot of compliments, for he twisted his foot around the other nervously, not sure how to react to the praise.

            “Have you seen Ser Pounce? He’s run off again.”

            Phoebe pointed to her left, “I believe he went that way, shall I accompany you?” she offered. Prince Tommen gave her a bright, genuine smile and held out his small arm in a princely fashion. Phoebe took it, biting back another laugh.

            They walked together, slowly, for Tommen’s legs were short and he couldn’t quite keep pace with Phoebe. So she relented and walked slower, taking time to enjoy the scenery around them.

“Your friend is not here with you?” Tommen questioned, looking up at her.

            He meant Sibella.

            Phoebe shook her head, “No. She has other matters to attend to.”

            Tommen’s face morphed into one of sore disappointment.

           “Oh,” he murmured, “She was rather nice.”

             “Perhaps we could all have some sweets together sometime? Would you like that, Your Grace?” she posed, thinking it might be good for her and for Sibella to get away soon.

“I would be delighted,” Tommen grinned, “But you don’t have to keep calling me Your Grace, Lady D’ysquith. You and I are friends now,” he pronounced happily.

           Phoebe forced a smile on her face even though in her heart of hearts, she felt her stomach plummet, for if this is what the boy thought of friendship (two meetings and an invitation to lunch) the poor boy hadn’t many friends at all. Nor did he realize what constituted a friend. Though, Phoebe thought darkly, by being the son of a Lannister and a Baratheon the boy was doomed to have little to no friends by default.

            She spotted Ser Pounce in that moment, rushing between two rose bushes.

“There!” she pointed and Tommen ran as fast as he could. The cat had the good sense to not run this time, and simply waited till Tommen was near him to purr and meow at his feet, sliding in between his ankles, causing Tommen to giggle at the silliness of it all.

            Phoebe had to smile at the innocence of the moment. Things had become so convoluted, so twisted here in King’s Landing that she thought that she’d never see anything so simple, so pure ever again. But this was proof of that. Her heart sang at the affection Prince Tommen held for his cat, and the cat for the little boy. It was pure, it was good.

            But, it was then that out of the corner of her eye, a flash of red hair caught her attention. With Tommen preoccupied with Ser Pounce, Phoebe found herself turning in the direction that the haze of red had been. It was Sansa Stark, of that Phoebe was most certain, for no one else in the capital had hair like that girl had. That beautiful cascade of fire against ice skin.

            No, it had to be Sansa, and upon further inspection, craning her neck to see the tall girl, Phoebe knew it was her. But the man beside her was a mystery to Phoebe. She had seen him at court, and knew him well enough to know he was important, but his name escaped her memory altogether. His voice was hushed, a husky low voice of command, his dark clothes and dark hair concealing him within the darkness of the trees.

           The light from the sun then shined on something on his tunic, a mockingbird pin and suddenly Phoebe knew.

           Lord Baelish. Petyr Baelish.

           What in the world was he doing with Sansa Stark? She thought he had left for the Eyrie by now. 

           Phoebe struggled to inch closer, to remain within Tommen’s sight and still be able to hear at least some of what Sansa and Petyr were discussing, but the poor boy took no heed of the situation and ran to her with Ser Pounce in his arms, giggling loudly, and the moment was gone.

           Both Sansa and Petyr’s heads snapped up to look at where the laugh had come from, but Phoebe had had the good sense to playfully snatch Tommen away, and move before it was too late, before she was caught.

            Tommen walked on, unawares. He petted Ser Pounce happily, chatting to her about every odd thing that he thought of.

            Phoebe was quiet. Solemn. She did not know what to make of what she just saw, but she knew it was dangerous. Treasonous.

            She knew from her conversations with Monty that Baelish’s alliances were ones of convenience, that the man could not be trusted. Yet Sansa Stark seemed to trust him, as the Starks and Tullys had done.

           But Phoebe wasn’t so sure.

          “You look quite ill, Lady D’ysquith,” remarked Tommen, “Do you need to see a Maester?”

           They had stopped walking, well Phoebe had, and Tommen had paused to inquire about her health. A wave of nausea passed through Phoebe but she willed herself to not vomit.

           Instead she smiled.

          “I’m quite fine, Your Grace.”

           Her voice trembled as she said such a thing, but luckily Tommen did not press her on it.

           They walked back to where his Septa was waiting for him, looking more than impatient. Tommen had yelled goodbye, promising to invite her and Sibella to lunch.

          Phoebe walked back to the Red Keep in an utter daze. Everything seemed heightened, seemed too colorful, too fast, too much.

          A letter on her desk only made things worse. Her stomach churned as she ripped it open hastily.

         “My Dearest Niece,” the letter began and that’s really all that needed to be read for Phoebe knew immediately whom it was from.

          Her eyes scanned the contents of the letter, her eyes passing over certain phrases more quickly than others.

         The words that stuck out to her were the following:

          I’ve been invited, by the request of Cersei Lannister, to attend the wedding of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell.

          Phoebe reeled back at those words. Gods, her Aunt was coming as well.

          This was all going to be a bloody mess.


	18. MONTY VI

**Monty:**

“He’s here,” Monty uttered grimly as he came striding into the room, shutting the door hard as he tried to get the image of Lionel Holland here in King’s Landing out of his head.

            Phoebe’s face morphed into one of total disbelief from where she sat on the bed. The letter she was reading dropped from her hands.

“What?” she exclaimed, rising from the bed.

            “He’s here, in the hallway. I saw him just now,” Monty told her.

            Phoebe half looked like she wanted to run outside, to see if it was true, but that would only cause trouble, and so she stayed put. Monty had half a mind to run to warn Sibella, to find her and tell her, but he knew that if he stepped outside and saw Lionel, he’d have no one stopping him from killing him with his bare hands right then and there. Although he sorely wanted to, it would make such a mess for Sibella and Phoebe, that he knew it was best to stay here.

           His hands clenched tightly into fists, shaking.

“So it’s time,” Phoebe said softly, glancing at the ground.

            Monty’s tension eased at her pain. He came forward, embracing her tenderly, a kiss to her forehead.

“I don’t want to lose her just yet,” Phoebe confided to him in a whisper. Monty’s grip tightened.

“Nor do I,” he replied, holding her. “Nor do I, my love.”

           “She’ll be at his side all the time,” Phoebe murmured into his chest. “We’ll never see her.”

“We will make do with what time we have,” Monty stated.

            Phoebe looked up at him.

          “Monty, we have no more time…”

           Monty cursed under his breath. She was right. She was always right, of course. He could tell that she knew as well as he did that they would never get a chance to be alone with Sibella again, that their time with her was gone and forgotten about, that Lionel would be her shadow.

“Damn him,” Monty cursed.

            Phoebe flinched in his arms, but raised no objection to the curse like she usually did.

“Is she there?”

“I don’t believe so,” answered Monty. He thought Sibella had gone to a luncheon with Lady Taena or whomever. He wished that he could find her, take her aside, and tell her of what awaited for her back in her rooms.

            Perhaps, if he could, they could find passage on a ship and sail away to someplace far away like Essos or Pentos, anywhere where Lionel Holland was not.

            But Monty knew that was just a dream, a hopeless, stupid dream. He sighed into Phoebe’s hair, closing his eyes.

“What are we going to do, Monty?” she mused against him, her fingers tugging at his lapel in need of comfort, of reassurance, but Monty didn’t have a solution. Well, murder was out of the question, at least at this moment for it would be undoubtedly linked back to him and him alone. He wished he had done it back in Lannisport where less people would talk.

“I’m not sure,” he murmured back to her, kissing her head again. She looked up at him, her face nervous and concerned.

            But Monty did not know what to do. His hands fidgeted at the uneasiness of the situation, of the unknowns. Phoebe seemed to sense this for she grew quiet, and simply held his hands in her own.

             Monty’s forehead touched hers gently, grateful for her presence.

            Sounds of footsteps outside in the hallway drew them both from their quiet moment. It was unmistakably Sibella’s heels against the stone floors. She had this way about walking that Monty could tell where she was in the house just by listening to her footsteps. Monty’s heart stiffened, for he knew what was to come, what was she about to see in her own room.

            Phoebe paled as she heard the footsteps, and she gripped Monty’s hands tighter, and tighter.

           They both heard the door open, the hinges creaking. Muffled voices.

           Monty strained to hear more, but he was concerned for Phoebe, for she looked rather pale and distraught.

“Why don’t you go out for a walk? Some fresh air would do you some good,” he offered. It was pointless, a stupid gesture but it was all Monty could offer her.

“Will you join me?”

            Her eyes searched his, but Monty glanced down at his feet, giving her his answer.

“Monty,” she started, her tone motherly, scolding, “You can’t possibly-“

           “I’ll stay, and if he even dares to try anything I’ll-“

            “It won’t do you any good to stay here,” Phoebe tried to reason with him, but Monty would not be moved from his thinking.

            “I won’t leave her, but you should. This is strenuous for you.”

             It was a pathetic excuse, one that made him wince at calling his strong Phoebe weak and stressed at such a matter.

             Phoebe’s face betrayed the hurt she felt by that statement. She glared at him, her eyes blazing. Monty knew inwardly that he would suffer for that phrasing later on, but for now Phoebe went off, storming in a huff, eager to be away from him, and Monty was left in peace.

            More muffled voices came from the other room, Monty could just barely hear what they were saying. Sibella’s voice was whispered, much lower than it usually was, whereas Lionel’s voice was nearly inaudible. Just a low grumble, like a wolf’s.

            Monty sat on the bed, putting his head in his hands. His fingers clenched at his hair tightly, pulling at his hair until he felt like he would tear it all out in one fell swoop.

            Gods, this was all his fault. At that moment, he felt an urge to punch a hole through the wall, and wring Lionel’s neck with his bare hand. Trembling, Monty let out a long sigh, still clenching his hair and glanced at the wall as if he could see through it.

            He could imagine the conversation just as well.

            Sibella trying to tactfully conceal her hate, her disgust that her husband should come to King’s Landing so quickly. A quick smile, a forced one. A slight laugh that did not hint to Lionel her discomfort, her displeasure. Lionel was as dull as a stone in that regard, oblivious to the point of utter stupidity.

            Sibella was the quick witted one in that marriage.

            The voices grew louder, well, Sibella’s did at least. She sounded angry, as she should be. Monty thought it was only right. Then Lionel’s voice snapped, like a whip on leather or on skin, and Sibella quieted.

            Monty gripped his kneecaps hard, if he lay a hand on her, Monty would kill him. Break through the wall and smash his ugly gray haired face in till it turned into a bloody pulp. He would have no problem doing so. He doubt Sibella would either, but just to be sure, he paced instead.

            His footsteps were light across the floor, but his pace was quick. Too quick, as if he was trying to dizzy himself into oblivion, which he kind of was. Monty felt sick at the thought of Sibella alone with him, at the thought of his hands on her. His heart pounded in his ears, consuming all other thoughts. Rage was all he saw, everything was red tinted. The world spun, but Monty steadied himself by gripping the bedpost.

            The worst was yet to come. The voices had quieted but in their place were hands touching, hands roaming. Monty knew because the silence was too great, too swallowing for it to be anything else. Once, he had been at Sibella and Lionel’s house, a great risk on her part, and Lionel had come home early and Monty had been forced into the closet, hidden, all the while Lionel had his way with Sibella in the bed a few feet in front of him.

            The world had been red tinted then too. The closet had been prison bars keeping him from her. The same silence had filled the air that day too.

           The pacing stopped when he heard the bed start to creak. It wasn’t loud, not too loud that the rest of the hallway could hear it, but Monty could only because he was listening for such a thing. He heard the light fall of clothes onto the floor, for Sibella’s gowns were rather complicated and had a lot of parts that needed to be shed.

            He slid against the post, shaking. In that moment he was glad he sent Phoebe away, for she could never have borne this as well. Her heart was too delicate for such matters. She’d be so distraught and angry whenever Sibella came to Highhurst with a new bruise or a scratch, she could have never taken this.

           Monty wasn’t sure how much he could take either.   Soon, it was too much, and Monty fled the room, not daring to look back. He shut the door quietly, although took everything in him not to slam it.

           His pace was fevered as he stormed down the hallway, willing to go wherever his feet took him as long as it wasn’t there, near Sibella, near Lionel.

           His eyes were in a daze and he was not paying attention to where or whom he was walking in to, until it was too late, and Littlefinger’s eyes were on him, startled.

“I-I- I am terribly sorry,” Monty got out in a high voice once he returned to reality. There was Littlefinger and Lady Olenna. They were in some far abandoned hallway of the Red Keep, one that seemed to be filled with ghosts and all that. Echoes of the past.

           Littlefinger pursed his lips, looking over Monty scrutinizing him.

“How much did you hear, Lord D’ysquith?” Lady Olenna, ever blunt and to the point. Her own lips were tightly pressed together, her face pinched.

“Nothing, my Lady. I was quite consumed with my own thoughts, truth be told.”

           A quick glance between the two people were exchanged and Monty felt out of the loop.

“Well, as it happens, we were rather talking about you, dear boy. We have something of interest for you.”

           Monty frowned.

“Of interest? For me?”

           Littlefinger took over then.

“As it so happens, we know what went on with the members of the D’ysquith family you so precariously told had met with unfortunate accidents. I must admit, my spies in Lannisport were rather convinced you wouldn’t be able to pull it off, but so you did.”

            Monty’s blood ran cold. His face paled. So someone knew his secret. This information terrified him, but he tried to keep a cool demeanor, tried to keep up the façade.

“It was all accidents, terribly so. My wife and I were so-“

           “Don’t play coy with us, Lord D’ysquith.” Lady Olenna huffed, “We’re not children.”

“It was rather impressive, eight at one go,” complimented Littlefinger.

           Monty glanced between them.

“I don’t… I don’t understand…”

           Lady Olenna held out her arm.

“Come with us, we’ll explain as we go.”

            Monty took it eagerly, only after taking the first step did he feel the bitter twinge of regret, but that was for later, right now all he wanted was revenge on anyone he could get, and after all Lady Olenna and Lord Baelish did seem to be running the show here in King’s Landing.


	19. PHOEBE VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purple Wedding Time!!!

**Phoebe:**

       Phoebe couldn’t keep her eyes off of Sibella, no matter what quick wit her Lady Aunt Eugenia whispered into her ear during the ceremony. 

       Normally, she’d feign polite quiet laughter, but she could not even manage that on this day. It had been three days. Three whole days without a word from Sibella. 

       Phoebe had seen nothing of her, as if she had vanished, as if Sibella had turned into a ghost of King’s Landing. Seeing her at the wedding somehow only made the pain worse, for it reminded Phoebe that Sibella was still very much alive, and still very much Lionel’s wife.

       She glanced at Monty carefully, he was staring at Lionel as opposed to Sibella. His eyes were like daggers in the man’s back. She brushed her hand lightly against his, and he caught her fingers and gave them a gentle squeeze without ever taking his eyes off of Lionel’s form.

       Absentmindedly, her other hand went to her stomach, to the child that was growing inside of her. In a perfect world, Sibella would be included in their family. In a perfect world, this child would have herself, Sibella, and Monty watching over them and guiding them. 

       But this was Westeros. Even worse, this was King’s Landing.

       She felt sick again, and she closed her eyes until the nausea had passed. Her feet were starting to ache, for they had been standing here for a very long time while the Septon droned on and on.

       The wedding was quite the spectacle, however. Joffrey looked regal in his attire, and Margaery’s wedding gown was utterly gorgeous. Silver roses covered the train and snaked their way up to her bodice by way of silver thorns. Her hair cascaded down in her back in gentle curls. She looked like a true Queen of Westeros.

       Phoebe did not pity the girl. Not truly. Her sentiments and emotions were far too strung out at the moment for her to give any of her attention to the Tyrell girl. Not since Lionel had arrived.

       No, her thoughts, any and all, were on Sibella.

       Her eyes opened after a moment and she watched as Sibella shifted slightly where she stood, and Phoebe took in a deep breath.

       Phoebe thought she looked beautiful today. Sibella wore a gown of deep red, almost crimson, somewhat styling after Cersei Lannister. The detail work of the embroidery was stunning, although Phoebe could not quite make out what it was at the moment.

       After the feast, she’d try to get a moment alone with Sibella. To talk. To look upon her face once more. Anything would be better than nothing.

       Perhaps they could meet in the Godswood, if Sansa was not there. 

       Lady Eugenia stirred beside her, and Phoebe had almost forgotten that she was here. Her arrival had been quick, loud, and to the point. She had come for the wedding and that was all. She would leave in a few days time back to Lannisport and she wanted to take Phoebe back with her. 

       Monty had written to her, about the baby, and Lady Eugenia had all but whisked herself down to King’s Landing, as soon as she received an invitation to the wedding,to return her niece back to the safety of Highhurst. 

       Phoebe glanced as Sibella flexed her hand, the one she had cut with the shards of her hairbrush the other night. She had stopped wearing the bandage, but Phoebe could still see the faint lines of the cuts from here. 

       Finally the Septon concluded his speech, and everyone turned to watch the bride and groom walk past.

       Phoebe caught Sibella’s eyes as she and Lionel dutifully turned to greet the new ruling couple of Westeros, whereas Phoebe stayed put. She did not turn, nor move an inch. 

       Sibella looked alright to her eye, of that she was glad. She seemed nervous though, but she always did when Lionel was around.

       Phoebe wanted nothing more than to take her into another room, lock the door, and keep him away from her for the rest of eternity. 

       “Well, that was a royal wedding if I ever saw one,” remarked Lady Eugenia, glancing at Phoebe, “All pomp and frivolities, it gives the people something to look at, I suppose.”

       Phoebe swallowed, reluctantly turning her attention towards her Aunt. She saw that Sibella lowered and averted her gaze as well.

       “Yes, Auntie,” she demurred softly, “Well, with such tragic circumstances befalling before it, I suppose a royal wedding should be a distraction for the people. Stannis did almost sack the city.”

        Lady Eugenia snorted, “As if Stannis Baratheon could take this city. No dearie, I daresay it was all an elaborate set up to get the people frightened and then to have this wedding happen so that the people would be pacified by the sudden peace.”

        The corners of Phoebe’s mouth upturned slightly. Gods, she had missed her Aunt’s wit, even if the woman had scared her when she was younger. Now she was the only family member Phoebe had left. 

        “Do you think our King is that smart, to do such a thing?” Monty asked quietly as he clapped as the couple passed by.

        “Gods forbid, no. This smells of Tywin Lannister,” Eugenia whispered softly as she softly clapped. She then took Phoebe by the hand, “Even more reason to get you back home safely, my dear. I trust you don’t have any objections.”

         Phoebe found her gaze gravitating back to Sibella then, and her heart ached.

         “I do, in fact.” she stated, looking at her Aunt. “I cannot return home when my husband is still here, in the capital. It goes against my duties as a wife.”

         Lady Eugenia tisked, rolling her eyes, clutching Phoebe’s hand harder.

         “My dear Phoebe, my dearest niece, your duty right now is towards the safety of your child, not to your husband. Montague can take care of himself, I believe.”

         Phoebe sighed softly, for she knew there was no talking her Aunt out of this. Not now, anyways.

         Phoebe glanced back at where Sibella and Lionel had been standing, but they were gone.  She felt Monty take her hand.

         “Shall we go?” 

         She swallowed again, nodding and all three of them joined the mass of people leaving the Sept.

 

         The reception took place back in the Red Keep, and Phoebe had never seen the gardens so beautifully decorated. Colors came to life all around her, and she smiled at the happy scene. 

         She wondered if back at Highhurst, once her child was born, they would have a similar feast for her child. To celebrate.

         She linked her arms with Monty and they took slow steps while walking to the tables where the feast was taking place. The sun was out today, shining brightly and it felt good on her skin to feel its warmth.

        Everyone around them seemed to be in good spirits. Perhaps the thought of this boy king finally get married to someone who could control him better than his own mother could had pacified the nobles and the courtiers for a bit. For surely a married man would reign in his sadistic tendencies once he had been wedded and bedded.

        The Gods could only hope that Joffrey would be less cruel. That Margaery could now keep her hold over him.

        They had had enough war to deal with without contending to the whims of a boy king who had an inclination towards violence.

         Upon arriving to where the feast was laid out, a grand tent had been erected in the gardens where the royal couple and their families sat covered by a brocaded cloth of crimson with gold lions and stags and roses. Everyone else sat on wooden tables in front of them. Lady Eugenia had gone to sit, her legs tired and aching for standing so long after that, in her words, “Gods forsaken long ceremony”. 

        Monty and Phoebe, however, had gone up to give the couple their best wishes, as it was customary for them to do so.

         As they walked and stood in line, Phoebe glanced around for familiar faces. She spotted Jaime Lannister in the corner in the white cloak of the Kingsguard, watching everyone who went up to greet the king and queen. Loras Tyrell was chatting away with some other members of the nobility. Lord Varys sat at one of the tables, taking everything in. The crown prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell had arrived at court three days prior and had brought along his paramour. Phoebe had not caught her name, but she was a tall Dornish beauty with piercing eyes. Oberyn and his lover sat at one of the front tables, and Oberyn fed her grapes from his hand. 

        Phoebe glanced at where the royal family sat, thinking that perhaps Sibella and Lionel were saying their well wishes to the couple. 

        She was right, her eyes landed on Sibella as she and Lionel made their way to Joffrey and Margaery. Her stomach twisted as she watched Lionel snake a hand around Sibella’s waist tightly.

        The musicians in the corner began to play so the words that were said were drowned out by the haunting sound of the Rains of Castamere. Phoebe thought it an odd choice to play the song at a wedding, especially seeing as the song had been infamously played at the Red Wedding when Catelyn and Robb Stark were slaughtered.

         But then again, Phoebe was reminded, this was the Lannisters, as the golden lions on the cloth of crimson stared back at her with their golden eyes. The Lannisters cared not for anyone but themselves.

        Lord Tywin came to sit at the table and glanced curiously at them. He gave her a curt nod, and nothing else. The gesture unnerved her. She was sure it was common courtesy, but she did not trust a man like Tywin Lannister. 

        Cersei came sweeping in to her seat then, reprimanding little Tommen for asking to leave to go play with Ser Pounce. The boy pouted, and crossed her arms but his face lightened when he saw Phoebe.

        “Lady D’ysquith!” he smiled, uncrossing his arms and beckoning her over. Monty and Phoebe had no choice but to obey. So they stepped out of the line and went to see Tommen, with Cersei glaring at them over his shoulder.

        Seeing Cersei Lannister up close was even more unnerving than Tywin Lannister’s gaze. Her green eyes hated, they fixated on Phoebe and seemed to sense her treachery without even speaking to her.

        “Lord and Lady D’ysquith,” she stated quietly, “The crown thanks you for attending the wedding of your Lord and King Joffrey.”

        Phoebe and Monty curtseyed and bowed respectively.

        “Your Grace, it is our pleasure.” Monty smiled thinly.

        “Will you come to my wedding when I’m married, Lady D’ysquith?” Tommen piped up, gleefully smiling at her, “Mother, this is the friend I was telling you about. Lady D’ysquith has helped me catch Ser Pounce time and time again when he runs off from me in the gardens.”

        “I should be delighted to come, Prince Tommen,” Phoebe gave him a warm smile, though it thinned when she looked up to see Cersei staring at her.

        “Tommen won’t be married for many years,” she stated curtly, “And besides, you would probably be back at Highhurst with your child by then. You wouldn’t have the time to see Tommen wed.”

        “I’m sure I could make the time, Your-”

         “And risk leaving Highhurst?” Cersei tilted her head, and laughed, “I daresay your family has had enough troubles within Lannisport, you would dare risk leaving the safety of it once more. House D’ysquith is thinning rather fast, I’m surprised at your tenacity, Lady D’ysquith. Surely if my House was at such a risk, I’d stay home no matter the cost. For nothing is more important than family.”

         Phoebe swallowed hard.

        “The Starks left Winterfell to come here and look what has happened to them,” stated Cersei with the echoes of the Rains of Castamere in the background, “I doubt you’d want to tempt the same fate, especially given your family’s tragic history, Lady D’ysquith.”

        Monty took Phoebe’s hand wordlessly. “We came here to show our loyalty to King Joffrey and to the Realm, Your Grace.”

        A small smirk emerged on Cersei’s face.

        “Yes, yes, of course, my lord. As was expected of you.”

        A beat of silence lasted a second too long, and Phoebe watched as Monty’s hand twitched.

       “If you’ll excuse us, Your Graces, my lady wife needs to sit due to her condition. We beg your pardon…”

        Cersei waved them away with a hand while Tommen looked sorely disappointed at Phoebe leaving.

       Monty then bowed and took Phoebe by the hand to the tables.

       “I thought we were-” she whispered once they were far enough away from Cersei.

       “No, not now,” Monty murmured. “There’s time for that later.”

        Phoebe glanced back at the royal family to see Olenna Tyrell talking to the Stark girl. Olenna decked out lavishly in blues and greens, whereas Sansa wore a dark purple dress that complimented her fiery red hair. A necklace with dark purple crystals hung around her delicate throat. The crystals caught Phoebe’s eye  for surely such a prized piece of jewelry must have been a gift. The poor girl had been dressed in rags and torn dresses since her captivity here in King’s Landing, for the Lannisters refused to give her any new dresses. Perhaps the necklace was a gift from Lady Margaery, or a gift from Lord Tyrion.

        She saw Olenna tuck a piece of hair back from the girl’s face, almost motherly before she walked off to her seat. Phoebe thought that strange, for surely the Tyrells only sought after Sansa for her claim in the North, why was Olenna being so motherly to her now?

        She didn’t have much time to muse on the incident before Joffrey began to speak. She honestly did not pay much attention nor heed to his words, for he still sounded like a mewling child and so she focused her gaze on her hands as she sat with Monty and her Aunt. 

        She dared not look for Sibella again, no matter how much her heart ached to do so. 

        Joffrey spewed some nonsense about how a royal wedding was not amusement, but then proceeded to introduce a mummer’s play about the war of the five kings, which was strongly amusing Joffrey himself. 

       Phoebe glanced up to see the dwarves in full costume, one as Lord Renly, another as Stannis, another as Balon Greyjoy, one dressed as Robb Stark, and lastly a dwarf acting as good King Joffrey. 

       Her stomach churned upon seeing the horrid and disrespectful show that caused the Lannisters much amusement. A quick look around was all it took to tell Phoebe that no one else thought it was outrageously funny.

       Loras Tyrell up and walked away from the farce. The Stark girl looked sick, as she watched the mummer as Rob Stark pretend to die and then don a wolf’s head. 

       Phoebe found herself looking away, although she knew that she shouldn’t have done so. She couldn’t help it. It was too horrible to watch. It was a child’s amusement, and even that it was well below the belt. 

       Monty took her hand underneath the table, squeezing it tightly. She stole a glance his way, his face was stern and impassive. Lady Eugenia, however, did not care to hide her disgust, her nose wrinkling up at the horrid scene.

       Phoebe was ever so glad when it came to an end, the cheers and claps erupting around them, but she knew that this was just the beginning. Joffrey would never let go of such control over a feast like this, his own wedding feast. He would torment anyone and everyone because it pleased him.

       The target of the day appeared to be Lord Tyrion Lannister. The King chided him about joining the mummer’s play, something about surely they have an extra costume. 

       Phoebe glanced at Tyrion then, as was everyone else. It was a precarious situation, but Tyrion Lannister was not a man of precautions. A quick wit from him was lost in the loud laughter that boomed around her, but Phoebe saw that the King was not pleased by the reply. 

       She squeezed Monty’s hand tighter under the table. 

       No one dared to move, no one dared to breathe, as the two sparred with words until it suddenly turned physical with Joffrey pouring wine over Lord Tyrion’s face. 

       A deathly silence filled the air.

      “A fine vintage,” remarked Tyrion, licking his fingers the drops of wine, “Shame it spilt, Your Grace.”

       Joffrey’s face turned purple with rage.

      “It did not spill, you Imp! For your insolence, you shall be my cup bearer for the rest of the day.”

       Tyrion merely rolled his eyes at the request. He stood then and made to leave, “Can your royal cup bearer be excused to change out of these wet clothes to better serve you? And your Lady Aunt is quite tired-”

        “Fill it,” commanded Joffrey sharply, shoving the cup near Tyrion’s face. Just as Lord Tyrion was about to grasp it, Joffrey let it fall to the floor. The sound echoed across the gardens, and it rolled underneath the table, by Sansa. 

       She dutifully picked it up, and wordlessly handed it to her husband. 

       None of the Lannisters were laughing now, not even little Tommen. 

       Tyrion filled the cup, and Joffrey looked at his uncle with a ferocity Phoebe had never seen before.

       “Kneel,” he demanded, his voice low and cruel.

       Tyrion did not move.

       Joffrey breathed heavily, getting angrier by the minute.

       Suddenly, Margaery stood, clasping her hands, “Look the pie!” her voice rang out, a pleasant distraction from the tense atmosphere.

        At his new wife’s call, Joffrey turned to her, his face softening as the pie was rolled out by servants, a grand piece of food. 

        He gave the cup to Margaery, who put it by her place, near her Lady grandmother and herself. Phoebe was grateful that the cup was forgotten about for a moment, perhaps this wedding would not be a catastrophe after all.

        Joffrey then called out for his sword and hacked at it, the birds fleeing from the crust up into the air.

       Phoebe wished she and Monty could leave this wretched wedding like those birds. Up and leave, and take Sibella with them.

       “Uncle! I need more wine!” Joffrey shouted as he ate spoonfuls of pie at Margaery’s hand. 

       She gave her husband his cup, and Joffrey stuck out his arm, cup in hand, towards his uncle impatiently. 

       Tyrion all but snatched it from his nephew, filling it slowly. After it had been filled to the brim, Tyrion handed it back to Joffrey, who was grinning at Lady Margaery like a gleeful boy who had gotten his favorite toy.

        He downed it all in one gulp, and then ate some more of the pie.

        Phoebe glanced at the food on her plate and found that her appetite had been entirely lost during these last few tense moments. For how could she eat when such a terrible commotion was occurring? No one dared to interfere though, not those who called Tyrion a friend or ally. Lord Vary was silent, Jaime stood at his post stoic. Little Tommen looked ashamed but dared not to speak.

        The sound of coughing caused Phoebe to return her gaze to the couple’s table. 

        Joffrey, it was Joffrey who was coughing. Harsh gasps escaped from his mouth as he tried to down more wine, but his face grew red. The coughs became more strangled, and the King clawed at his throat in panic, or desperation. It was all happening so fast, that Phoebe thought she might be imagining it. Surely he wasn’t choking.

       But then Margaery screamed that he was, and that he needed help.

       Cersei all but ran her down to get to her son as he collapsed on the ground, convulsing, his hands at his throat as his face started to turn purple.

       The horrid sounds of him choking was all Phoebe could hear although everyone around her was screaming in horror, some were yelling for help, some were crying. Everyone stood, to get a better look, to really see if he was choking.

       Jaime Lannister pushed through the crowd, running to the King, fighting over him with Cersei, who tried to hold the King in her arms. 

       Margaery had flocked to her grandmother, horrified.

       Tyrion had picked up the cup, looking at it in terror.

        The mass panic around her made Phoebe feel faint in horror, for surely people had wanted Joffrey dead but who had actually had the guts to go through with it? Surely it was not Tyrion, she thought as she watched as the King’s body convulsed once more, and then remained still in Cersei’s arms.

        Her eyes went from the dead king’s body to Tyrion, to Margaery, and then to Sansa, who had backed away from the scene in terror. A man cloaked in black appeared at her side, and grabbed her arm. 

       Sansa looked up and saw Phoebe’s eyes on her. Their gaze met for a moment.

       And then, Sansa vanished with the mysterious man and Cersei screamed, calling for Tyrion’s head.


	20. SIBELLA VII

**Sibella:**

        She had a hard time trying to get to sleep that night, for the bells were tolling every minute of every hour for the death of the king. 

        Their chimes were incessant, Sibella doubted that anyone could sleep in King’s Landing tonight, for each minute that their King was dead was another minute a threat could rise up and take the Seven Kingdoms.

         Sibella’s thoughts wavered towards the Targaryen girl, this Daenerys across the sea. If she had any wits about her, she’d attack now, while the Realm was fragile and the Lannister’s hold on the throne rested on the shoulders of a young boy who preferred cats to men.

         Seven hells, things had gone from bad to worse in the few short hours since the wedding. Lord Tyrion awaited his fate in the Black Cells while Lord Tywin ruled the Realm with an iron fist, but Lord Tywin had no dragons, he only had fear.

         Still, Cersei was nearly mad with grief over the death of her son, and Sibella suspected in that fevered state of mind, she was bound to make several mistakes, some of which may cost the Lannisters the Crown.

         Surely she wouldn’t want Tommen crowned so soon. Surely she wouldn’t risk everything to stay in power by making the boy King within the fortnight. 

         Then again, Stannis’ forces still threatened and loomed in the distance, though reports said that he had gone to sack Winterfell. 

         And this threat to the east was gaining an army, or so Lionel’s confidantes had said. 

         A Targaryen girl with three dragons.

         Sibella half hoped that the girl would burn this city to the ground, and Sibella herself too. 

         Being here, in King’s Landing with Lionel, was unbearable. For the past three days, he had been a constant thorn in her side, had never left her for more than a moment alone. His arrival had started an argument and then a sloppy love-making patch up apology of sorts. 

        Seeing Phoebe and Monty at the wedding had only made things worse, for she longed to be with them. 

        She wondered… a brief thought crossed her mind and it excited her enough so that she sat up in bed without giving a care towards Lionel.

        For surely if she couldn’t sleep, then neither could Monty or Phoebe. 

        Lionel slept beside her, but that did not matter one bit. He’d sleep through a storm, he’d sleep through a sack of the city and not wake until the break of daylight, of that Sibella was utmost certain.

        She hastily tied a robe around her delicate smallclothes, for the night was slightly chilly with the moonlight air. Slipping on her shoes, she quietly left the room, making her way towards Monty and Phoebe’s door. She knocked on it ever so carefully, and upon receiving no answer, confirmed her inclination as to where they were.

        She tried not to run through the gardens, as to not draw any attention to herself, for it seemed like the entire city was awake as the bells chimed across the shore. 

        The godswood was quiet as she made her way towards it, the ringing of the bells seemed to fade away at the spot, although the city watch continued to ring them loudly. 

        She should have known earlier that this was where she could have found them, but of course, after Joffrey’s murder, Lionel had insisted on them staying out of sight, in order to pay their respects and she had been dragged off to the Sept for the better part of the evening to pray. The entire time she had only thought of Monty and Phoebe. 

        Seeing them in the godswood made her heart jump with joy, for she was ever so glad and grateful to see them. 

        Phoebe turned and saw her first, rising slowly due to her condition and Sibella embraced her gently, peppering light kisses to her face and nose. 

        “How did you know we’d be here?” Phoebe asked in a soft voice in between Sibella’s kisses. 

        “I harbored a guess,” answered Sibella, taking her hand and squeezing it.

        Phoebe looked her over, her other hand coming to cup Sibella’s cheek tenderly.

        “How are you, my darling?” Phoebe’s dark eyes were imploring. 

         Sibella forced a tight smile on her face, “Fine, my dear. Please do not fret over me. How are you, how’s your Aunt, I regret that I was unable to greet her today.”

         “Aunt Eugenia is…” she paused, giving Monty a glance, “Aunt Eugenia. You know how she is.”

         Sibella looked to Monty then, as he stood, brushing the dirt from his knees.

         “She’s come to take Phoebe home, back to Lannisport,” he said softly.

         Sibella’s grip on Phoebe’s hand loosened.

         “What?” she could not hide the surprise in her voice, even though the notion of the plan made her feel much more secure about Phoebe’s safety and that of her child’s. 

         “I’ll be gone after the trial to go into my confinement at home, we cannot leave until then in fear of causing suspicion from the Lannisters. But Monty says he should like to stay until the new king is crowned, or whatever else happens, and I doubt you and Lionel would take leave now either.”

         “I’ll tell Lionel I wish to go home as well, he wouldn’t dare deny me that,” Sibella protested stubbornly, “We’ll go together.” She kissed the back of Phoebe’s hand gently.

         Phoebe’s gaze softened. “It would look too suspicious, after everything that’s happened.”

         Sibella nearly gwaffed. “And yet meeting here isn’t treasonous enough?” she gestured towards the land around them, the sacred place of the Northern Gods.

        “Lionel surely suspects, I couldn’t bear to have him think ill of you because of me.”

        “He suspects of Monty and I, but that is all, my love. He harbors no suspicions about you and myself, of that I am quite sure.” Sibella reached out and brushed a few curls back from Phoebe’s face. “Please, let me come with you. I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

        Phoebe bit her lip, chewing on it carefully and for some unknown reason that made Sibella irritated. 

       “Phoebe, please,” she begged. Her stomach churned at the thought of something happening to Phoebe while she was at Highhurst, of her suddenly losing the child, or what if she bled to death on the birthing bed?

       It was then that Monty took her hand, standing next to Sibella. 

      “Perhaps, there is another way.” 

      Sibella glanced at him, trying to read his face but she found nothing. He pressed something cold into her hand.

      Looking down on the object that Monty placed in her hand, Sibella found nothing unusual with it. It was simply a necklace with purple colored crystals adorning it.

      But suddenly Phoebe gasped, and Sibella’s attention was diverted from the necklace to Phoebe. 

      “Darling?” Sibella asked, hesitantly raising a hand towards her. Monty, however, remained silent.

       “I’ve seen that before,” she whispered, her tone horrified and hushed, pointing to the necklace. “Today. I saw one like that today, at the wedding. Sansa Stark was wearing one just like it.”

       Sibella’s blood grew cold. There had been more than a few whispers amongst the guests of the wedding that Lady Sansa had poisoned Joffrey, in league with Lord Tyrion. Some say she had killed the king and then changed into a wolf, disappearing into the night.

       It was true that the girl had disappeared after Joffrey’s death. No sign or sight of her had been spotted since the feast. 

       Maester Pycelle had concluded most confidently that it had been poison, Tears of Lys to be exact. 

       And what better way for Lord Tyrion to poison his nephew than by keeping the alleged poison around the neck of his traitor wife’s throat. For surely the poison must have been kept in a secret location, a vial or flask would have been too obvious. 

      But a necklace…

      Sibella felt faint at the insinuation.

      Both she and Phoebe stared at Monty in silence, waiting for an explanation on his part, waiting for him to deny it, to say something, but he remained quiet.

      “Monty,” Sibella’s voice was barely a whisper, “Monty did you-”

     “No.” He stated firmly, “No, but this could help with Lionel. After all, a string of poisoning amongst the nobility would hardly be cause for concern amidst the trial of the death of a king.”

     Even though Sibella let out a breath at that, she felt no more relieved than she did before she had asked. If Monty had this… it must mean that he was in league with whomever had killed Joffrey. Sibella had her suspicions, but she had mostly dismissed Lord Tyrion as the suspect. Too obvious. 

     Someone must have put that necklace on Sansa Stark.

      The Queen-to-be perhaps. Margaery had of course, acted the part of the grieving bride once it was announced that Joffrey was dead, but who knew what plots lurked beneath that pretty face?

      Sansa certainly had enough reason to kill him, but not much opportunity. Had she slipped in some poison when she had retrieved the cup for Tyrion? Had she gotten the poison from someone, intent on killing Joffrey who had tormented her so?

      The whole incident was more layered and complex than it seemed, and Sibella was shocked that Monty had some part to play in it.

      “I thought we were done dancing so close to treason, Montague,” she warned softly, her eyes glaring, her heart hardening.

      At least, Monty had the grace to look ashamed.

      “I admit that I let my emotions about your dear Lord husband coming to King’s Landing cloud my judgment about such things.”

      Sibella let out a harsh sigh as she ran her fingers over the cool jewels. She wouldn’t do it, she’d be a fool to do so, with Lannisters around every corner, and everyone’s suspicions on high alert, but she could keep it. For later. For back in Lannisport. 

     She clasped the necklace around her throat without another word. 

     Phoebe looked on, horrified.

     “If this is how it’s to be, I daresay you should go with your Aunt back to Lannisport,” Sibella said after a moment. 

      “Sibella, you wouldn’t- if anyone found out- the pair of you could be-” Phoebe stammered, her breathing turning panicked and both Monty and Sibella took an arm and steadied her. One of Monty’s hand laid on her cheek, while Sibella’s hand pressed against the other cheek as her breathing calmed.

“Nothing, and I mean nothing, shall happen to either of us, my darling,” Monty swore. “You and Lady Eugenia shall go to Highhurst, and Sibella and I will join you soon enough.”

     Phoebe whimpered, trying to put a voice to all of her fears and concerns, but Sibella kissed her lips softly, attempting to comfort her, and Sibella’s touch seemed to do the trick.

     It wouldn’t be healthy for her or the baby to have her fussing so.

    “These games that the high lords and ladies play will not ruin us or our relationship, I promise you that.” Monty murmured in her ear.

     For a moment, there in the godswood, with all three of them together, Sibella actually believed him.

     But such hopes were soon dashed away as quickly as they had appeared.

 


	21. MONTY VII

**Monty:**

     The entire trial was a farce, Monty was most certain of that as he watched witness after witness be called upon to present evidence against Lord Tyrion and his lady wife, Sansa. It did not seem to matter to Tywin Lannister or Cersei Lannister that the evidence was flimsy at best, for they had already made up their minds that he was guilty.

      Nothing could sway them from convicting him.

      It briefly reminded Monty of his cold greeting from the rest of the D’ysquith family, Phoebe, Henry, and Lord Asquith Sr. excluded. Everyone else had been keen to look down on him for his claim to the family, many outright refused to believe it. In their minds, he would never be a D’ysquith, much like how Tywin and Cersei believed that Tyrion could never truly be a Lannister despite his name and blood. He brought shame to the family, or that is what they choose to believe, just like the D’ysquiths believed Monty and his mother were a stain on the family.

      In that moment he felt for Tyrion, he related to him. Surely if someone had looked closely at what happened with the D’ysquiths, Monty himself might have ended up on such a trial like this back in the Westerlands. He might have found himself fighting for his life, for his honor. 

     Luckily, Monty had escaped such a fate, whereas Tyrion was trapped into it, for Cersei was bent on revenge, bent on shedding blood for blood at the murder of her son. 

     Nothing could be done for him now, not unless a miracle happened, but Monty highly doubted that. The whispers of the Red Keep already believed him guilty, and that line of thinking had traveled all the way down to Flea Bottom. Outside the city walls, people called for Tyrion’s head.

     Not that the kingdom was sad in losing Joffrey as their King. Gods no, he had starved them, had slaughtered them in midday, but the murder of a king was a spectacle, a cause for riots, and Flea Bottom was brimming with rage. They now had a target to aim their anger at, Tyrion Lannister, the Imp.

    Monty knew this trial was just for show, and as such he did not keenly listen to the testimonies that were brought in front of the judges. 

    King Tommen had excused himself, as being the accused’s nephew, found himself to not be impartial. The poor boy had stuttered through the whole thing, the crown on his head too big. He looked like a child playing as a King.

    Monty’s eyes grazed across the men who sat amidst the Iron Throne, acting as the judges, jury and executioners.

    Men of high esteem, men of connections. Men of importance. 

    How he longed to be on that jury, how he yearned to be deemed that important.

    He wondered how it was that Lord Tywin was able to sit on the jury as the judge, if he was the accused’s own father, but Monty highly doubted that any man wanted to tell Tywin Lannister no. 

   Regardless, the trial dragged on with witness after witness being called forth. Lord Tyrion had to stifle many outbursts, for he knew that such things were being pinned on him unfairly, and yet he knew that none of it mattered. 

    His own family would see him convicted and killed for a crime that he did not commit. 

    Servant girls, squires, the Grand Maester, even Lord Varys were all brought forth for questioning. None of them got as much as a rise out of Lord Tyrion as one serving woman.

     As she walked into the Throne Room, Monty tried to place her. He had seen her at court, but her features were not Westerosi, nor was her accent. 

    The Stark girl and Lord Tyrion. He had seen her with them, the woman often a shadow behind the Stark girl.

    Shae, he thought her name was. The chamber-maid to Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa certainly made for a compelling witness, he wondered how in the Gods the jury had been able to procure her, for Monty was sure she had been missing a few days prior.

     Lord Tyrion looked gobsmacked, he evidently thought she had left for good as well. Monty strained to see his face, but he glanced at his shoes with a furious expression that could not be concealed. 

    The room silenced upon her entering. Lord Tywin asked for her name.

     “Shae, my lord.”

    “And do you have something of importance to tell this court?” Lord Tywin asked quietly.

     Monty resisted the urge to scoff, if she had been brought here, surely she had something to say.

      “Yes, my lord. I have come here to say that Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa are the ones responsible for the death of the King. They planned it together. She hated Joffrey and wanted him dead, and Lord Tyrion was happy to oblige her. He poisoned Joffrey, he killed the King in order to make her happy and make her love him.”

     “And how do you know all of this?”

      Shae straightened, and Lord Tyrion looked pained.

      “I was his whore. He told me everything, he told me that nothing would make his wife happier than to see King Joffrey dead and that he would be happy to see his nephew dead.”

      A shocked gasp erupted throughout the court, even Phoebe beside him let out a small gasp of surprise.

      Monty swallowed hard. This trial was too close to home for him. He felt uncomfortable, as if watching an alternate reality in which he was on trial for poisoning the D’ysquith’s. Only in this version, he had done it for his mistress, Sibella, and not for his wife, like Tyrion has supposedly done.

      He could not imagine Sibella being brought to court, being put on trial for his murders, and he imagined Phoebe would be even worse for ware. 

      His darling girls being faced with endless questioning, with endless humiliation and torment. It made his stomach turn at the thought.

      Phoebe reached for his hand then, holding it tightly. His fingers gripped hers and he felt comforted that at least she was right there beside him, safe. 

      Sibella, on the other hand… His mouth turned dry. He sought out her golden hair amongst the crowd and found her sitting opposite them, on the other side of the seating arrangements. Outwardly she looked on attentively, but Monty knew that she was bored, or worse thinking on the necklace that he had given her the other night.

       Monty wondered if that had been a mistake, to allow his girls the knowledge of his involvement in the plot to kill Joffrey and the other Lannisters. He hadn’t seen any harm in it, for nothing would happen until Tyrion got convicted and blamed. The Lannisters would be on high alert for a long time. 

      Besides, his anger at Lionel had clouded his judgement and he simply wanted the world to be rid of that man as soon as possible.

      He knew Sibella would not do it. Not now. Not here. But the security in knowing that at least she had the means to do away with him at any time she pleased brought Monty more comfort than anything. 

      Her eyes glanced from Lord Tyrion to meet Monty’s eyes across the way, and he felt himself become breathless at her gaze. 

      The other night in the Godswood when he had given her the necklace he had only wanted to wrap his arms around her and keep her safe and kiss her till the break of day. He was glad that she had found Phoebe and himself, he knew that the bells would have kept her up, and Phoebe had pleaded to go to the Godswood, saying that she and Sibella had met there once before. 

       She took a long deep breath in, letting it slowly through pursed lips. Lionel shifted at her side, and then watched the trial with eager eyes, as if the outcome would help his standing in society. 

      Monty felt the ghost of a smirk on his lips upon thinking that Lionel was dimwitted enough to think that this trial could help save his House and his status.

      Sibella obviously felt similarly, for she exchanged a small smirk with him for but a moment before she masked her face with a cool demeanor. 

     His heart swelled, for he loved those moments, those small seconds in which she was entirely his, when she and him were so in sync, when she gave herself to him through her thoughts and expressions. He loved it when the mask fell from her face and she showed who she really was. 

    The chamber-maid and Tyrion’s whore, Shae was being led out of the Throne Room, causing a great commotion amongst the smallfolk and nobles alike. 

    Monty thought that the trial would be adjourned for the day, resuming for tomorrow but Lord Tywin did not move from his seat. 

    “The Crown would like to call one more witness to the stand,” he drawled out in his low voice, effectively shushing the crowds.

“Lady Phoebe D’ysquith,” he announced.

    Phoebe’s fingers stiffened and she let out a small whimper of fear. Monty tried to keep his face calm, but his heart was racing.

    When Phoebe stood and made her way to the stand, Monty glanced at Sibella.

    The mask had crumbled and she looked as terrified as Monty felt.

    Dear Gods, what had they done?

    What would become of their dear Phoebe?

 


End file.
